


(We are moving) From A Spark To A Flame

by starkind



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Police, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, FireCop, For the most part, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Tony Stark, Present Tense, Thanks to my muse, The only valid shipname there is, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 38,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkind/pseuds/starkind
Summary: After a series of pyromaniac-induced incidents all over town, Gotham City is in dire need of assistance. Commissioner Jim Gordon thus calls in an old favor from former associate Nick Fury, these days acclaimed battalion chief of the Avengers FDNY.When the Avengers temporarily switch quarters and move into the vacant firehouse across the block from the GCPD, things are bound to become interesting.
Relationships: Tony Stark & Avengers Team, eventual Tony Stark & Bruce Wayne, eventual Tony Stark/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 202
Kudos: 234





	1. When there's smoke...

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote the first draft of this, it was supposed to be a 'JLA/Avengers as firefighters' crossover of sorts. Then I went and forgot about this for almost two years, only to completely scrap and revamp it within four months, and now there's no JLA and only Nolanverse Bruce facing Tony and his team (apparently, I have a thing for singling him out, and I'm sorry about that) 
> 
> If you still decide to give this a try, allow me to say thanks and -hopefully- happy reading. 
> 
> The title is a line taken from the lyrics to 'High On Emotion' by Chris De Burgh (1984). 
> 
> NB: I know nothing about the hardships that come with both professions in real life, so all of this will likely feature fictional inaccuracies. Be aware, and try to be nice when pointing out grave mistakes. Thank you :)

“Mark 2... Engine 1... Ambulance 41... we have a Still Alarm in Midtown.”

As their dispatcher's voice comes through the radio, Captain Steve Rogers slips into the passenger seat and starts calling up data from the board computer. “Gotta be a high-rise.” His driver leans over to peek at the address, nods, and, with a resolute tug to fasten his baseball hat, turns on the ignition. At that, Mark 2 comes alive with a deep, roaring shudder, and its flashing lights illuminate their surroundings in red and blue.

“Get ready for an all exciting night on the town, Steve-O. Buckle up.”

Anthony 'Tony' Stark, daredevil engineer and acclaimed driver, works the big steering wheel with effortless motions to maneuver the huge red-gold firetruck out of the station. Over the speakers, the cool voice of dispatcher Phil Coulson continues to give off information to other trucks. Steve cranes his neck. “Rhodes, what truck are we? First?” The Lieutenant in the back puts on his jacket and hoists up his remaining gear.

“Dunno. Third or fourth I think.”

With a loud, long wail, Mark 2's sirens then echo through the warm summer night, as does its air horn.

“You wanna try and go straight down?”

Steve, comm in hand, looks at his driver. Tony nods, eyes strictly focused on the road.

“If the construction site's been removed we should head for 42nd.”

In front of them, Engine 1 just then has to put on the breaks, so Tony has no choice but to also bring his truck to a shuddering halt, slamming his palms flat on the steering wheel in exasperation. “Fucking midnight drivers, I hate this crowd. Move, you pinheads!”

Over the sound of the blaring Q-siren in the background, Rogers presses the comm. He is quick to instruct the blocking cars out of their way, and from the rearview mirror, he also sees the flashing lights of their EMS vehicle closing up to them. Steve's blue eyes narrow when Engine 1 roars past them, carrying the rest of his trustworthy unit of skillful firefighters and trained paramedics.

“Phil, can you verify the alarm assignment. What do we have?”  
Coulson's voice cracks through the speakers immediately after.  
“1st Alarm, high-rise. Still. Copy.”

Steve sighs inwardly and updates their operator on their ETA and current traffic woes. Over the course of the past few weeks, summer and its scorching hot temperatures have caused a lot of fires, not just within the forests or recreational areas. Oftentimes, it was yet another broken air conditioning or cable fire that led to many operations directly in the city center.

With a curt thanks, Steve signs off and looks back up to where Engine 1 meanwhile has created an emergency corridor. It is then that Tony puts his foot down hard, and 500 hp make them surge forward to finally go at a more fluent pace. With an eye out for the EMS behind them, Tony glimpses at the familiar profile to his right. “Really hate those high-rises.” Amused, Steve checks the pockets of his turnout jacket for a pair of gloves.  
  
“Why, it's not like you have to give up your cozy spot down here.”

Dark brown eyes hold a touch of reprimand as they throw him a pointed glare. As matters stand, Steve always marvels at how Tony still manages to keep an eye out for traffic as well. “Exactly. I never know what shit you guys are pulling off inside. And waiting's not my favorite. Never been.”

There is no time to reply seeing Tony swerves the large truck through another sharp turn just then, cutting corners. Steve reinforces his grip on the metal handle to his right. “We'll be in and out in less than 30, you'll see.” Flashing blue lights in front of them come to a standstill. Engine 1 has arrived at their destination. Before Steve can make a move for the door, Tony's hand is on his shoulder, giving a firm squeeze.  
  
“You guys be careful.”  
Steve looks down before his lips quirk into a gentle smile.  
“Always.”

+

50 miles further south, Jim Gordon drops the receiver with a grim expression.

Detective Renee Montoya who stands next to his desk lowers the file she was reading. “Problem, Commissioner?” Gordon makes a sound between sigh and snort. “Looks like our friend again. The meat processing factory at the docks.” Montoya swears under her breath and slips the file back onto his desk. “The department is stretched too thin, we don't have more people to go out and put out fires. Not if we pick up a hose ourselves.”

Gordon reaches into the drawer of his desk to fish out a rag and starts wiping at the smudged lenses. He squints up at his detective as he rubs the micro-fabric over the glass. “I need to make a phone call. Take Detective Stephens and secure the docks. Maybe there's something left to give us any clues.” Once she has pulled the door to his office shut, Jim reaches for the phone. The line gets picked up after the second ring.

“I would like to speak to Nick Fury.”  
He is told to hold and gets put through two times, one of them landing him somewhere IT-related.  
“Jim, long time no hear. Still plagued by pyromaniacs?”

Nicholas Joseph Fury, going by Nick -or, in Jim's head 'hard-assed bastard'- sounds as suave as he remembers. Jim thus decides to also forgo pleasantries. “We're assuming the fires are being laid intentionally, yes. My detectives are working on it. Still, the major requests to reinforce the local firefighter roster.”

“A temporary loan's all I can offer.”  
Gordon's smile becomes slightly tense even though there is no one around to witness.  
“Fine with me. As long as my men get to join crime scenes to find out who's behind the fire starters.”

“As long as they don't get in the way.”  
That elicits a snort. Things between them have not changed over the past decade and a half.  
“Those are my people you're trash-talking about, Nick.”

“And they're cops, not firefighters, Jim.”  
Feeling a headache coming up, Gordon leans back so that his chair gives an audible sound of protest.  
“Are you helping me out or not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The famous Q-siren and other blaring examples of some of FDNY's finest trucks:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYDVddQ_H0s
> 
> Oh, and yes, I changed Tony's vehicle to Mark 2 here, because if it is red-gold, then there's gotta be an Iron Man reference.


	2. Firestarter

On a sweltering late afternoon at the end of July, a nondescript van arrives at the GCPD headquarters. Its passengers pile out and into the air-conditioned premises without much ado. Jim Gordon is wearing a tie with a short-sleeved, beige button-down and shakes hands with his old associate from New York. Fury, for once without his heavy leather coat, assembles his team in a row before he starts walking Jim down the line.

"This is Captain Steve Rogers. He's the team leader.”

Said Captain stands tall at attention. “Pleased to meet you, Commissioner.” Jim returns his smile with a nod as they shake hands. Next to Rogers stands a noticeably shorter man with a less-muscular frame. Jim cannot help but wonder how the guy can carry people twice his height out of burning buildings before Nick speaks up. “Anthony Stark, our engineer and driver.” The man's grin is self-assured when he takes Gordon's hand.

“- and the guy who can fix any- and everything that has wheels. Pleasure, Commish.”

Fury casts him a knowing glare that seems to not have the desired effect on his employer before he walks Jim further down the line of his squadron. “Lieutenant James Rhodes and our roster of firefighters - Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, and James Barnes. Bruce Banner and Donald Blake here are our Emergency Medical Technicians.” Jim greets every single one of them before he starts making introductions in return.

“We are grateful for your services in Gotham. Allow me to introduce you to the GCPD team whom you'll be working with.”

He makes a wide sweeping gesture which beckons over a cluster of people who have gathered at the side, waiting for their call. “There are Officer Blake, Officer Polk, and Officer Davis-” Gordon waits until people have stopped seizing each other up and are shaking hands before he continues. “-Detectives Stephens, Montoya, and Ramirez, Deputy Commissioner Foley, and... Lieutenant Wayne.”

He says the last part with a bit of a pause, laying eyes on the person who has just arrived.

Said Lieutenant stops right there in the entrance area, dressed in civilian clothes and carrying a slim endurance bike upon one shoulder. He slips off a dark pair of shades to eye the commotion around with apparent skepticism. Gordon is quick to motion for him to dispose of his bike before he turns back to Nick Fury with a slightly apologetic shrug. “He is off-duty. Lieutenant Wayne usually works the night shifts.”

Tony elbows Steve and is about to comment on the lax attitude of cops, but Steve seems to have gone completely rigid. Big imaginary question mark over his head, Tony glimpses from his friend back to the stranger and finds Wayne's posture and demeanor equally stumped; his gaze fixated on Steve in return. When Wayne eventually does as he was told and disappears, Tony sees how Steve's eyes trail after him.

Before Tony can inquire further, Jim Gordon demands their attention again and ushers all of them into a brief tour of the firehouse that will be their designated home base for the upcoming weeks - or months, depending on the pyromaniac situation. The vacant fire department is just across the street, and Tony geeks out a little at the old-fashioned architecture and many great stories this building sure as hell could tell.

Steve takes all of his Ghostbusters movie comparisons without batting an eyelid, so Tony deems him unworthy and gets Clint to sing along the theme song with him as they enter the building. While Clint then follows Nat onto the first floor, Banner and Blake check out the basement and its emergency first aid room. As Steve and Bucky converse with Fury, Tony finds himself drawn to the truck that is going to be at his mercy.

It is an older version than his trustworthy Mark 2, but he finds it well-cared for; with a solid engine block and functional equipment. Shutting the driver's door, Tony jumps down and tilts his head as Steve comes strolling his way. “Doesn't look too bad. Gotta spruce her up a little but nothing major. Needs a paint job, tho. 'vengers style.” Tony points at the Gotham City Fire Department logo on the truck's side, grinning.

“Good, good.”

Steve seems more than sidetracked and Tony cocks his head when he notices the reason for it. The dark-haired Lieutenant is back and is now eying them from across the main entrance of the GCPD. Tony cast him what he believes is a wholly winsome grin, to which Wayne only responds with a deepened, murderous glare.

“Wanna tell me what's cooking?”  
Upon Tony's hissed out question through half-open lips, Steve starts doing that adorkable titter he always does when he is nervous.  
“What? Nothing. Nothing's cooking.”

And that's when Tony's interest is more than piqued.

Steve cannot lie for shit, and it is always a delight watching him trying to keep a straight face.

Tony knows this is the exact reason Steve never joins their poker nights.

Once they are done walking around the firehouse and reassemble at the entrance area, the official get-together over, he drags his still-badly-deflecting friend and team leader over to a small deli around the block. Rhodey and the rest of the gang remain behind to fight over sleeping arrangements. Tony is the least picky of them and will take whatever is left. He does not sleep well in foreign places anyhow, so why bother.

With an Americano for him and a Flat White for Steve, they settle into a corner by the window.

“Now spill. What's with that Gotham dude?”

“Can't you just leave it be?”

Steve then makes a point in eying the chalk-written menu over the counter with interest. “Hey, maybe we should give the herb Foccacia grilled cheese a go. Looked good in the vitrine.” Tony leans across the high table they are sitting at, that way catching Steve's attention. “Not until you tell me what's the deal between you and Lieutenant Murder Robot back there.” After a while, Steve finally lowers his head with another, softer titter.

"We had a one night stand six weeks ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: "Firestarter" is a song by the British band Prodigy (1996)


	3. Sound Of Da Police (woop woop)

Steve and Lieutenant Wayne had a one night stand in NY during one of Steve and Bucky's temporary breakups.

Though it happened a few weeks ago, Bucky still does not know about it, and Steve worries Wayne is going to spill and cause ultimate mayhem on their still-tender attempt at returning to relationship normalcy. This is basically the gist of Steve's unfurling misery. Now he sits with his head resting atop folded hands on the table. Tony, cheek propped up on a fist, regards him with something between fond exasperation and affection.

“Geez, Steve-O, you really went for the jackpot there, that's truly a one-in-a-million fuck-up.”

Steve apparently does not find the situation as hilarious as Tony. He raises his head to run a hand through his hair. “We didn't talk about our professions, why should we! It was a one-time thing, you... you don't exchange things like that.” Tony nods along, tapping a little wooden stirring stick against the rim of his mug.

“Yup, same thing goes for numbers. What I don't get, though, is this - if both of you were on board for an ONS, something's still rained on the dude's parade. My only explanation? You must've been exceptionally bad in the sack.”

For all of his tough exterior and commandeering attitude, Steve Rogers blushes ferociously. “Shut up, Tony.” Said man does as he says and buries his merry chuckle in his coffee, taking a big sip. Waiting. Steve also manages to slurp some coffee, then stops running a finger along its handle and clears his throat. “Thing is, I might have...” Curious, trying hard not to show it, but failing entirely, Tony leans in.

“Yeeees?”

“... well, I did want to meet him again the next day, and he agreed. So we fixed a time and place. Only-”

Steve starts hemming and hawing, and so Tony does what he always gets with people who talk with pregnant pauses. He fills their silences. “Lemme guess – you chickened out?” It prompts a vigorous shake of a blonde head. Steve is now back to staring into his coffee as if it holds the answer to all of his woes. “Bucky called me later that night to apologize, and we made up, so I-... never went to meet him there.”

Well. There it is.

For all of his righteous and honorable ways, Steve always puts things on the backburner for Bucky. Always has, always will. The two of them go way back, so it is perfectly understandable, but Steve's attitude toward his friend and partner often got him in more trouble than he accounted for. Tony puts his mug down with care, but not after savoring the rich brew again. The coffee here is good. Thankfully. A lifesaver for upcoming months.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, that's bad ONS etiquette for sure, Cap. Shame on you. However, I also gotta say - stuff like that happens, I mean, it's not like you promised to donate him a kidney or something, so... Just give the guy a few more days to cool it down and then talk it over a beer or something?” Steve rubs his face in his palms. “I really don't want to bring this up anymore.” He sounds so miserable that Tony awkwardly pats his arm.  
  
“Well, then you can only hope that Wayne is a forgive-and-forget kinda fella.”

+

Here is the thing about Gotham: Tony does not like the city. Or, no - rather, the city does not like him. He had been going into this temporary stint with arms and eyes wide open, only to get fucked over the third night on the town. Flashing blue lights pull him and his beloved Audi R8 out of traffic just two miles before his temporary apartment in Uptown.

All Avengers have been offered housing facilities close to the firehouse which is situated in Midtown. Tony wanted the opportunity to make use of his latest purchase on four wheels, so he picked an apartment a solid 20-minute-drive away from the firehouse. Amazing cars like his need to be driven. On top of things, it has been a real bargain seeing he bought it off its previous owner looking like a pretzel after a near-totaling crash.

Months of loving restoration and tinkering have finally paid off, and Tony loves a V10 under his feet whenever he drives to and back from work.

Except now. Now he is busted.

The reason why he did not notice he was being followed is that, so far, he has been under the impression that the GCPD only drives sad old Crown Victorias. Apparently, however, the black, bulky Ford Taurus Interceptor pulling him over belongs to the carpool as well. Who knew. Lessons learned and all that.

It is dark when a male silhouette makes his way over to Tony's rolled-down window. “Good evening, Sir. Turn off the engine. Vehicle registration, insurance card, and driver’s license.” The flashlight moves all over Tony's face as he starts fumbling around for his papers in the glove box, so the element of surprise goes to...

“What a small world. Mister... Stank, was it?”

At the dry, deadpan voice, Tony squints up and into the flashlight.

When the officer turns it off and pushes the visor of his black ball cap higher, Tony groans out loud, because _of course_.

“Stark, actually, and no, there's nothing good about the evening if you really wanted to know.”  
Officer Bruce Wayne keeps his stoical expression, though the corners of his mouth quirk for a split second.  
“I, for one cannot help but find the situation hilarious. Do you know why I am standing here?”

Tony's grin manifests. And turns shark-like. Two can play that game.  
“-...'cause you failed the fire academy test?”  
In an instant, the temperature drops 10 degrees until Tony is positively sure he can see icicles when exhaling.

Officer Wayne's glare deepens, though that should have not been physically possible. “You were driving 15 mph above the limit.” Tony averts his gaze to look out of the windshield, snorting out a merry chuckle. “Oh, please.” Lips curling in sardonic glee, Wayne reaches into his jacket and produces a small notepad. Tony sees him scribble something down before ripping the paper off with gusto and handing it over.

“That's $180. Cash or card?”

Incensed and incredulous at the same time, Tony rapidly blinks from the fine back up at him. “What!? C'mon, man! Dude, you gotta be shitting me! The fuck?!” Wayne gives a bored-looking tilt of the head and flips the copy of Tony's fine around to produce a fresh, blank sheet of paper.

“Disorderly conduct would be an extra fine of $250 or 15 days of jail time. Cash or card?”

“You...-”  
By sheer willpower, Tony snaps his mouth shut to stop feeding into Officer Wayne's supercilious smirk.  
“...-card.”

He all but thrusts the small credit card out of the window but ends up having to hold it up until Wayne has the grace to have the portable card reader ready. The small screen flashes $180 at him, and Tony waits with gritted teeth and his hands clawed around the wheel until he gets handed his card and a receipt back. Officer Wayne then has the audacity to give a casual-bordering-on-bored salute against his hat.

“I'll go easy on you. This time. Have a nice evening.”  
Throwing both card and receipt onto the passenger seat with force, Stark re-ignites the engine with a roar.  
“You bet, Officer.”

There is venom in his voice upon the last word, though he manages to keep a faux smile until he is back on the road. Within the safe confines of his car, he curses in two languages and the foulest ways imaginable. What a bastard, that Wayne. How Steve could fall for this douchenozzle is beyond Tony. Sure, he and Bucky are roughly the same height and have the same hair color, but that's where any comparison ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: "Sound of da Police" is a song by American rapper KRS-One (1993)


	4. The Heat Is On

The next day, Tony grouses to Rhodey about Wayne, telling him he is a “fucking donut cop” and that “The only reason cops are even allowed at a real emergency scene is cause we're busy and someone's gotta direct traffic.” Rhodey takes his rant with as much emotion as someone who just got through a night shift.

He yawns at him.

“So you don't want to switch shifts?”

Nope, Tony muses. He does not. Best not run into that night shift creeper cop again or he may do something he regrets. Instead, he lets Rhodey catch some well-deserved Zs and goes to rant off to an unsuspecting Steve, whose only outward reaction upon the mention of Wayne's name is a clench of his jaw. He at least makes Tony feel validated in his simmering anger. That's what friends are for, no?

+

Thunderstorms follow Gotham's heat spell, which at least ensures the potential pyromaniacs stay inside. And, because karma is Tony's bitch, he gets a mighty payback for the speeding ticket incident only two nights later. Fate has it for him to run into Officer Wayne and his Ford Taurus again, out there all by himself, busy directing traffic in the pouring rain due to non-working traffic lights at a much-frequented crossroad.

Even from afar, it goes to show just how much Wayne resembles a wet dog in his GCPD safety vest over an equally soaked windbreaker. Tony lets his car's window whir down, just enough not to get the fine Nappa upholstery wet, and smiles. “My, my. Good evening to you, Officer... Waldo, was it? Or not? Wayland? Wainwright! Gosh, I'm bad with names. Anyhow. Not shilling out speeding tickets today?”

Wayne's eyes blaze open fire from underneath his dark and dripping-wet baseball hat. Tony makes a point in popping his chewing gum loud enough for him to hear, grinning with an air of audacity that is trying to find its match. “Though, with this weather, people don't speed, eh? I mean, it's effing pouring, you can't really go fast. I've been told this city's got an exclusive subscription for piss-ass weather, but boy, does it deliver.”

There is an almost cooing quality to his words. A thin but steady rivulet runs down the edge of the hat's visor as Wayne lifts his head to watch more cars approaching the junction. “Move. Along.” His voice is monotone and flat. Tony nods along in mock-compliance.

“Yep. Back home to my cozy couch with Netflix and pizza it is. Tootles!”

The window whirrs up right before Tony accelerates for everyone to hear he is driving a bomb-ass V10. Left behind, Bruce's wet and cold fingers clench hard around the baton flashlight. He swallows against a risen ire and then wields the baton with force to indicate the accumulated batch of cars to get rolling.

+

The long-overdue confrontation between Steve and Bruce happens at the end of the first week when the two of them inevitably cross paths one evening. It happens right after Steve's daytime shift as he is headed for his car at the private parking lot the two departments share, only to find the space there already occupied.

“So. _Greg_. Small world, isn't it?”  
The quiet voice makes Steve snort. He throws his duffel filled with dirty laundry on the backseat.  
“You've got to talk, _Adrian_.”

Steve pronounces the faux name with as much derision as Wayne has done before him. In slow, confident strides, Bruce walks around him to unlock the large Ford Taurus Interceptor which occupies nearly two parking spaces due to its width and size.

“First lesson of one night stands: Never give your real name.”

Steve's eyes follow him as he reaches inside the vehicle and flips a switch to which the bonnet pops up an inch. “So what's your problem then?” Not bothering for eye contact, Wayne walks over to lift the hood of the Interceptor and props it up. With maddening calmness, he removes the dipstick and wipes it down with a rag. “No problem. More of an advice.” Steve realizes he is grinding his jaw and forces his teeth to unclench.

Wayne deftly reinserts the stick and removes it again with force, reading up on the current oil level before he re-enters Steve's line of view. “Try not to shout out your lover's name next time you're cumming your brains out with another guy.” A rather supercilious tug lies around his mouth. Steve slams his door shut before his fingers curl into fists. “If you're trying to blackmail me, you'll regret it.” Wayne's small smirk is mirthless.

“That would mean I care. Which I don't.”  
He lowers the prop rod and clicks the hood back shut with an effortless move.  
“But maybe your precious Bucky would.”

Before he can pass him by, Steve's hand shoots out and catches Wayne's forearm in a tight grip. “We can settle this any way you want to, Lieutenant.” Movement at the main gate erupts, followed by the chatter of several people yet to appear in plain sight, and Steve releases him with something akin to a small shove. Wayne's smirk is still obnoxiously unfazed, though his eyes have taken on a cold and calculating glint.

“Looking forward to it, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: "The Heat Is On" is a song recorded by Glenn Frey for the Beverly Hills Cop movie (1984)


	5. Guns and Hoses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title info:
> 
> "Guns & Hoses" is the common name given to nationwide events that feature police officers and firefighters competing in various sports. Some impressions can be found here:  
> https://firstrespondersomaha.org/guns-hoses/  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p8O-wqdmXs4

The annual charity boxing matches between cops and firefighters -which are a thing all over the country- also take place in Gotham. And just like in any other city, they present the perfect opportunity for an alpha-male duke-out of the legal and do-gooder kind and fuel the ever-present, underlying rivalry between both groups.

While each of the Avengers' members was offered a spot on the charity roster as well, only Steve has risen to the occasion. His motivation is driven mostly by his charitable nature but almost doubles in numbers once he learns he will be going up against Officer Wayne. Getting to beat the living daylights out of the guy without getting sued for it afterward is the proverbial grist to Steve's mill. That, of course, is his own hidden agenda.

Even if he knows he is just as guilty, Steve vows to make Wayne pay.

+

Things get real on a Saturday night at a boxing venue in the heart of Gotham city. The atmosphere is filled with chatter and excitement, and cops and Gotham firefighters mingle around. The event is not as popular and frequented as in New York, and most people present show more interest in networking over cold drinks.

Tony, who has elected himself as the leader of Steve's cheering squad, is sitting on one of the few plastic chairs around the ring, surrounded by the rest of their team. He is not ashamed to admit he is far too pretty to turn into a mashed potato on two feet, and with all the testosterone around, why even compete, y'know? Brains over brawn's the good old Stark charm and all that jazz.

It does not hurt that Tony himself is an avid practitioner of mixed martial arts, but who is he to brag. He shall save that for when he finally gets the black belt after getting back to New York and his dojo. Once Steve walks into the hall to the sound of Survivor's Eye of the Tiger, which is a Tony-Stark-Cheering-Squad choice, his fellow team members and the rest of the firefighters erupt in wild cheers and applause.

Steve is donning the trademark red-satin hooded robe and raises gloved red-white fists towards his fans. He does a couple of shadow-boxing moves before he enters the ring with a spring in his step. Steve then goes to shed his robe in his corner and skips on the spot, also making use of the time to chat with Bucky who has volunteered to be his coach, water giver, and mental support boyfriend of the night.

Then the lights go dark again, and a different tune starts playing to announce his GCPD opponent. To a dubstep version of The White Stripes' Seven Nation Army, Lieutenant Wayne then walks into the arena, face hidden by both the shadows and the hood of his robe. Tony cannot help but roll his eyes at the dramatics, even though he kind of digs the remix. Not that he would ever admit such a thing out loud.

Compared to Steve's appearance, the rest of the GCPD does not so much cheer as they do something else. They start stomping their feet in unison, which only adds to the gloomy introduction of one of their own. From the looks on Steve's face, he, too, is kind of thrown by the oddity.

Wayne slips through the ropes into the ring with grace and the ability to not lose his hood in the process. It is all very orchestrated and serious, especially when Wayne turns to face the crowd, face still shrouded, and presses the knuckles of his blue-gloved fists together. The GCPD stomping thus fades to a series of quite peculiar chanting. Confused, Tony whips his head to catch Rhodey's equally baffled shrug.

It is actually Bruce Banner who leans in from the seat to Tony's right to shed some light on the situation. “Think they're chanting in Mongolian.” Tony glimpses around. “Huh. Weird. What are they saying?” Banner adjusts his steel-frame round glasses and makes a face like he is straining to hear. It takes him at least 15 seconds to come up with an answer.

“Deshi Basara. Think it means something like 'Rise up' but I dunno. My Mongolian is rather rusty.”

Tony tuts because he cannot think of anything to say. Banner is a lovely dork.

As quick as the chanting has started, it slows down and fades out. Tony thus cups his hands around his mouth and yells Steve's name to get his attention. “Go easy on him, Cap.” He pairs it with a shit-eating grin that gets aimed at his opponent; payback for Wayne's speeding ticket quip.

Because, yes, Tony absolutely is that vindictive bitch.

Lieutenant Wayne's murder gaze stays on him as he reaches for his belt. It is then that Tony's enthusiastic “Go Steve-O...” chants fade to a drawn-out “... ohhh, damn” as soon as Wayne sheds his satin blue robe to reveal a strong, chiseled physique underneath. To Tony's left, Rhodey leans back with relish and folded arms. “Safe to say Officer Wayne does _not_ fall into the donut-cop-category.”

Like being hit by a fat cupid's arrow, Tony can only nod along, busy appreciating the sight up in the ring. Wayne is not as bulky and massive as Steve but still packed with muscle, though more of a cut kind. “Well, fuck me.” He grouses out and slouches into his plastic chair, miffed at his treacherous loins and libido. Rhodey, the fucker, is still grinning. “You may have to rethink your wooing strategy for that one to happen, Tones.”

Tony bends his left knee to casually cross it over his other leg, thus looking cool and not like fighting a boner.

“Pfft. Just because I wouldn't mind sinking my teeth into those tight pecs? Doesn't mean anything.”

Up in the ring, Wayne and Steve have just gone through the most unenthusiastic display of sportsmanship by touching gloves without actually looking at each other, and then the bell rings and the fight is on. There are three one-minute rounds, and Tony soon finds himself not actively whooping along anymore when Steve goes for a direct hit below the belt.

It happens thirty seconds into the first round, and from what Tony's premium front-row-seat can make out, it is thoroughly intentional rather than accidental. The referee instantly breaks them up before admonishing Steve while Wayne fights to regain his breath. He refuses another touching gloves interlude and vigorously shakes his head at the GCPD detective who doubles as his trainer.

Tony who has known Steve is a classically-trained boxer from the very early stages of their friendship, cannot help but frown when he sees him doling out dirty fighting moves and masking them cleverly enough to not get disqualified. No one from their team seems to realize this, busy cheering as Steve lands a direct hit in round two. They are wearing protection of course, but in seconds, Wayne's face explodes in a bloody mess. 

Once more, the referee splits them up, pushing each man into his corner and goes to converse with the Lieutenant as his trainer tries to staunch the free flow from a laceration above his right eye with a towel. In the opposite corner, Steve slurps water from a straw handed to him by Bucky and sneers at his opponent. Wayne snarls at the referee, crimson-stained teeth gritted tight, coiled up and eager to keep going.

His adrenaline makes him dominate the first half of the third round, but after yet another hail of Steve's jabs land dangerously low and nearly send Wayne to the floor, the referee eventually calls it quits. In the end, the victory goes to Steve, to which roaring applause from his division erupts and he raises his fists, basking in the feeling of success.

Tony's eyes stray over to where Wayne unfastens his protection hat, yanks it off and throws it into the corner of the ring. He keeps on shaking his head and snarling at the people around, pushing away the towel and water bottle presented to him, and leaves the ring as soon as possible while the firefighters continue to cheer for their victorious Captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's intro music:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FLZS3jQPnKw
> 
> Bruce's intro music:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYFJjwXtsU4
> 
> That (in)famous chant (taken from TDKR and misused here) goes as such:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qBZ9i5BNjvE
> 
> Also, this is probably a lot like what got Tony salivating ^^  
> https://static1.puretrend.com/articles/0/60/95/0/@/637731-christian-bale-a-beau-nous-avoir-fichu-580x0-3.jpg


	6. Fire And Ice

Once their squad is on their way to celebrate Steve's victory at a bar downtown, Tony stays behind with the super lame excuse of having to use the restrooms, only to loiter around the by now empty locker room of the venue. He does not have to wait longer than ten minutes until Wayne appears, freshly showered and changed.

“Good fight. For a cop I mean.”

Wayne is already sporting a very visible black eye, and the sight of Tony turns his expression even darker.

“Fuck off, hose dragger.”

Well, no. Just no. Adonis body or not, this is not how Tony pictured this conversation to go. He thus says something rather rectifying.

“Geez, I was just trying to be civil - what is it with you, you fuckwit?”

Full of undisguised ire, Wayne stuffs a ball of clothes into his bag.

“Leave me alone.”

“Sore loser, eh?”

That earns him a piercing glare through narrowed eyes. Well, one and a half-eye, actually. “It was a dirty win, alright?” Wayne's voice is nothing but a hiss, albeit a dangerous one. Tony puts up a neutral face and hums. “You're not wrong-” His admission seems to take the wind out of Wayne's sails and he is quick to press on. “... which is why I wonder why you didn't retaliate.” Wayne snorts trying to zip his overstuffed bag shut.

“I don't fight like that.”

Something inside Tony's guts flutters at that. He is such a sucker for righteousness, it is pitiful. Or he is in dire need of food. “One of the last good cops then.” Straightening up with slow, pain-filled movements, Wayne casts him a glum look. “There are more of us out there than you think.” It sounds fierce, almost to the point of petulant, but it does make Tony abandon his cocky stance and rock back on his heels.

“I sure hope so. There's something special about the sense of family within a department.”

Lieutenant Wayne says nothing and heads over to the nearby washing bin to dispose of the used towels.

“Hey, Gotham...”

That earns Tony a wary look over the shoulder. Tony goes for a casual smile as he also arches an eyebrow.

“... put some ice on that, eh?”

He points at his own face to reference Wayne's blooming shiner. With the smallest of nods, the Lieutenant gives a push to the door and is gone.

A rather pensive Tony joins his crew twenty minutes later and deflects Rhodey's questioningly raised eyebrow with a broad grin and a challenge for a game of darts. The evening proceeds in an all fun and games way until Steve cracks under pressure -or rather under the influence of too much beer on an empty stomach- and confesses his slipup to Bucky after all.

Thankfully, no one but Tony overhears them, with the rest of the team on a joint mission to beat Clint at darts. Barnes, bless his soul, takes the revelation as calm as possible, and tells him no harm done. He still orders a bourbon neat, downs it in two large gulps and goes off to challenge Clint, knowing he will fail. Tony sits on his barstool, poking the cardboard coaster under his soft drink and tries hard to keep his mouth shut.

Tonight is not the right time to take Steve aside and call him out on his shitty moves. Tony has learned that karma may sometimes be his bitch, but it is best not to push his luck. Outside the bar, police sirens wail, and Tony raises his head. However, the flashing lights speed past.

+

Things start heating up a few days later when a company that is producing hazardous material goes up in flames right next to the highway between Gotham and Metropolis. Seeing the GCPD is on alert regarding their still-open pyromaniac case, Officer Wayne is the first one at the scene, followed by Rogers and his team. The latter merely spares the only non-firefighter around the briefest but still openly-disparaging glance.

“Leave. Those chemicals are potentially dangerous to breathe in.”

Wayne completely ignores him, busy reporting into his comm. From what Tony is able to overhear, he knows he is not equipped for the situation but at the same time adamant to evacuate people first. Before another duel of alpha male egos between him and Steve can erupt when time is of the essence, Tony goes and slips him a spare Emergency Escape Breathing Device from his truck when no one is watching.

“Here. You blue canaries never dress for the occasion. Don't tell anybody. Gotta reputation to lose.”

Officer Wayne takes the mask after a brief hesitation. Standing this close, Tony can make out the black eye which still adorns the area all the way up to his left cheekbone, even though it is starting to fade into shades of purple and yellow. To stop the quiet scrutiny of his person, Wayne is quick to pull the mask over his face and sling the portable tank around his torso.  
  
From behind the see-through visor, his eyes still linger on Tony for a second before he springs into action. Tony thus is quick to release the special equipment for ventilation so that his team gets to work effortlessly as well. And things progress fast after that; however, not in a favorable way.

Basically, Bucky does something stupidly risky by going into the not-structurally-sound building to see about people trapped inside. In the spur of a moment's decision, Steve follows him despite Tony's yells for him to stop, because damn it, that is not how things work.

Being the only one left outside at the front, Tony curses up a blue streak once the metal gate of the warehouse collapses with a massive loud bang and a fiery ball of expelling fumes. Heart racing, he jerks at the water hose Steve left behind and tries to hold open a corridor for them as the flames lick precariously close to his uniform.

After several nerve-racking minutes, they do manage to get out, with Steve carrying Bucky on staggering but never faltering steps, before he eventually crumbles to the ground at a fairly safe distance while more sirens wail out in the night. Banner and Blake are on their knees around them in seconds, faces drawn and barking out instructions for other EMTs who are arriving by the second.

Within all this commotion, it completely slips Tony's attention to how Bruce Wayne, Gerald Stephens, and Anna Ramirez head out after the pyromaniac who is still on the loose. The guy is crazy, armed and dangerous, and sends the cops on a wild goose chase through the surrounding, empty industrial area with its slippery cobblestone pavement and dark corners.

During the nerve-racking pursuit, Detective Ramirez gets shot and Stephens stays by her side while Bruce stays on target. He functions on autopilot, vision funneled down to making sure to focus as he raises his semi-automatic. In the end, a bullet through the back of the head ends the pyromaniac's life and months of terror on the streets of Gotham.

While Stephens calls in a coroner and medical support for Ramirez, Lieutenant Wayne slowly dares to lower his gun, arms shaky with pent-up adrenaline, and puts the safety lock back on.

The whole scene is a mess with the smoldering remains of the factory in the back, and a myriad of fire trucks and police cars parked up in front. The air is stale and acerbic from soot and extinguishing foam, though the chemical threat seems to have at least been neutralized for most operating personnel.

Bruce Wayne scowls his way through the harsh flashing lights all around, barking one-syllable commands into his buzzing comm. From afar, he spots the shaken figure of Tony Stark who does not take notice of him, busy watching two of his comrades being lifted onto stretchers. Just when they get wheeled into two ambulance vehicles, his comm buzzes again. Bruce turns away from the scene and reaches for it.

“Wayne.”

“Report, Lieutenant.”

Gordon's voice is agitated only to the trained ear.

“Threat eliminated, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: 'Fire And Ice' by Pat Benatar (1981)


	7. Things We Lost In The Fire

The Avengers re-assemble at the Gotham Grand Hospital where Steve and Bucky have gotten admitted into ER. They are informed Bucky's situation is critical, with massive third-degree burns on his left arm. There is talk about amputation, but the specialists think he is going to survive. The team takes the news as composed as possible, but a close look reveals a multitude of emotions they were trained to keep in check.

Tony is thankful Steve is not around as the doctors give a rather glum verdict on Bucky's outcome, or else the waiting area of the ICU would have been splinters and broken windows only. Their Captain, too, has suffered intense burns, albeit none of them as severe as Bucky. Still, he has to stay at least for a night and is currently being treated. Rhodey takes over, level-headed Lieutenant he is, and orders them to go home.

"Get some rest, guys. We cannot help them right this moment, and especially not keeling over from exhaustion."

"I'll stay."

Tony tells his buddy this as the others have already headed for the elevator to the main entrance. Rhodey's drawn features crinkle with a look that seems to say 'Just don't'. "Tones-" Tony shakes his head. "One of us should be here until Steve's responsive. I won't be able to get any shuteye tonight anyhow, so just let me stick around and I'll report to you the second I get news. We need you now to keep the team in check."

Appealing to Rhodey's (military-background-infused) sense of responsibility may be a bit of a dirty move, but it does the trick, and Tony is granted his wish. Although, staying behind in a hospital alone is ranking pretty low on his fun-meter if he is honest with himself. At least no one is around whom Tony has to keep a cheery facade up for, or who could bother him. The last part abruptly changes once Officer Wayne thunders in. 

He just happens to round the corner as Tony bemoans the non-functional coffee-o-mat with some hearty kicks to its dark operational panel.

“Stop that. Vandalism is a felony.”

Faced with such blatant self-righteous crap, especially on the cusp of a headache, Tony swivels around with vigor. “Oh, screw you, asshole.” Wayne's eyes narrow to slits. “I've told you about disorderly conduct.” Dauntless from worry about Steve and Bucky and severely under-caffeinated, Tony sneers into the other man's face.

“And I don't give a rat's ass tonight, you got that?”

A nurse finds them locked in a fierce stare-down, and before Wayne can truly bust his ass for being an insolent fuck, Tony addresses her. “Hey, can you tell me any news on James Barnes? Fireman, brought in with heavy burns 45 minutes ago?” She eyes him with wariness, to which Tony wipes down hair and face and tries for a less-manic appearance. “He's my teammate, just like Rogers – Steve Rogers. Can I... when can I see them?”

The nurse takes in his soot-and-sweat-stained attire of standard-issue FDNY long-sleeve, red suspenders, and Nomex pants, and gives him a hesitant smile. “I'm afraid Mr. Barnes is in ICU for the next 12 hours without any visitors. Mr. Rogers is currently being examined. You may wait on the second floor, area N.” When she proceeds to walk on, Tony lets her go and discovers that Lieutenant Wayne has vanished into thin air.

Glad for small favors, Tony finds himself running into Commissioner Gordon at the vending machine on the second floor instead. The Commissioner is holding a cup of what smells like fresh brew, and Tony's envious expression must speak volumes. “Staff has a functional coffee maker.” Much to his credit, Gordon does not sound smug, only informational. Tony has no time for jealousy as there is a commotion behind them.

It turns out to be a cluster of scrub-clad nurses going through a shift change. One of them waves at them -or at Gordon, rather- before their feet squeak away on linoleum floors. When he focuses back on the man across from him, Tony finds Gordon regarding him with curiosity. “I've heard about your team members. I'm sorry. I hope they recover fully.” Tony nods, wishing for something warm to curl his fingers around.  
  
“Always difficult when someone from the squad gets hurt. You got someone injured here, too I reckon?”

The Commissioner mimics his nod and gestures to a row of red plastic seats. As soon as Tony sits down, he can feel the remaining fumes of adrenaline he is running on bleed out and get replaced with growing exhaustion. “By the way, you should see about that Lieutenant of yours. I frankly believe he's some sort of sociopath or worse.” At that, Gordon throws him a curious side glance. “How so?” Tony gives a boorish snort.

“He's acting like a punk and seems hell-bent on making me hate him even more than I hate this city.”

After the unfiltered word-vomit has passed his lips, Tony feels shittier instead of better. Here he is, bitching to the police's Commissioner about his private woes when Gordon has been nothing but nice to him. He tries to rectify his badmouthing but the older man starts talking before Tony can formulate the right words.

“I've been a Lieutenant when Wayne's parents were shot in Crime Alley. The boy was barely eight. I still remember that night.”

Hearing that makes Tony softly curse under his breath. “How do you tell a child their parents aren't coming back? One of the most impossible tasks.” At that, Gordon's mustache twitches. “Oh, he knew. He was the only witness.” If Tony had not been sucker-punched by the whole Steve and Bucky situation, he might have been more eloquent. “Well, fuck.” Gordon's mustache twitches again, but he refrains from calling Tony out.

“All things considered, I'm glad Wayne ended up on our side.”

Tony stops gnawing on his lip. “Orphans make the best recruits?” He does not remember where he heard that line, but ironically it fits Wayne's shitty, sad backstory to a T. Gordon nods. “The family's butler took care of him until he died from illness shortly before Wayne turned 15.”

“Butler, huh.”

“The Waynes were wealthy, owned almost half of Gotham and a big estate outside the city, before their deaths. Still, their son left for Asia before the local authorities could step in and take care of him. When he returned many years later, the estate had been sold and most of the family's money had gone to local institutions.” Tony shifts forward, and the motion makes the fabric of his pants give a small squeak on the plastic seat.

“So what'd he do? Work at the car wash? Stole hubcaps?”

Gordon's mustache curves into a half-smirk. “Instead of getting help, he burgled his way to food and shelter until we picked him up and arrested him. I offered him a deal - sign up with the GCPD or go to jail.” That part makes Tony chuckle despite distress and fatigue. “Bet he was head over heels for that.” Gordon adjusts his thick glasses. “I'm glad he made the right choice.” He sounds wistful. Tony scratches a spot under his ear. 

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“For you to understand why he may act like a punk.”

Hearing his own words out of Gordon's mouth makes Tony feel like being admonished by the principal. Some nurse then calls out Gordon's name and tells him he may see his wounded Detective now. With a small smile and a pat to his shoulder, Gordon then gently forces his untouched, still-hot coffee cup into Tony's hands.

“Do try to get some sleep, son.”

Tony watches him leave with his fists stuffed into the worn-out pockets of his Columbo-esque trenchcoat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: 'Things We Lost in the Fire' by Brit-band Bastille (released 2013)


	8. I Fought The Law (and the law won)

When Tony is finally able to visit Steve, it is already early morning. By now he has also come to learn Bucky's condition may have stabilized but he is about to undergo another round of surgery to try and save his arm though it does not look too good. There are complications and such extensive burns that circulation may or may not be restored.

Faced with such dire circumstances, Tony sends Rhodey a text and ends up arguing over recklessness and disregard of personal safety with an ill-tempered Steve. The last part has not been part of Tony's plan, but Steve's unrelenting attitude has always been the source of Tony wanting to bash his perfect teeth in.

He still loves the guy dearly, all platonic of course, so Tony tells him to get some rest and goes to stew away his frustration at the local shawarma restaurant. He and Clint have discovered this hole-in-the-wall gem during a particularly long shift, and soon enough, the whole squad was having takeaway nearly every day.

Now it is already early afternoon, and Tony has not had something substantial in his stomach.Thus, he is already a bit tipsy after downing two Arak (on the house, because the restaurant owner knows his regulars) when Officer Wayne comes in. Their eyes meet, briefly, and just as quick, the Gothamite ignores him in favor of placing his order for something to takeaway. Tony sneers to himself and leans back in his chair.

“Yo, Officer. 'bout that coffee machine. Has it agreed to testify 'gainst me or are you droppin' charges? I plead self-defense just so y'know.”

Damn, Tony thinks even as the words pour out of his mouth, his non-existent filter is even more non-existent than it is when being sober. Deeply unaffected, Wayne settles for a corner seat by the door, sadly neither out of earshot nor sight of a still-grinning Stark. “Lost your ability to speak? That famished?” Wayne grimaces –either at some specks of undefinable sauce on the tabletop or Tony's jaunty quip- and pulls out his phone.

Tony snorts and fiddles with an empty shot glass. “Ohh, I get the silent treatment. Gotcha, gotcha. You have the right to remain silent, or what was that?” Wayne glares daggers over the rim of his phone. “Shut up, or else-” Riveting in the attention, Tony leers back. “... else what? You're gonna arrest me? Huh? Too bad I ain't into handcuffs.” With a tense expression, Wayne pockets his phone and stands up to glower down at him.

A power-play move, Tony assumes.  
  
“Handcuffs sadly don't make you shut up.”

Interesting. Tony squints at him like a riddle begging to be solved until Wayne turns to stand with his back towards him, arms akimbo and weight evenly distributed on both feet, waiting for his order. Annoyed, Tony goes back to poking his two empty glasses before his mouth gives a retort that takes way too long to be even remotely considered witty or smart. “...'pends on how the rest of our encounter'd go.”

Tony realizes he is slurring his words a bit, and maybe that is why Wayne does not bother for a reply as he grabs the white plastic bag that gets handed across the counter and shoves some bills over. Their eyes meet again when the Gothamite passes by Tony's table, headed for the exit.

“If you get behind the wheel later on, there'll be hell to pay.”

Tony flips him off two-handed, though it only graces Wayne's back before he gets distracted by his own food arriving steaming and delicious. As he stuffs the first bite of shawarma into his mouth, he watches Wayne slip the loops of the takeaway bag around his bike handle and ride off into the sunset, all straight lines. He does have a nice, tight backside, Tony muses. Pity the rest of Wayne is such an utter douchebag, though.

+

Rhodey seeks him out at the shawarma place half an hour later. Probably Tony's unintelligible text messages have been a good indicator that something was fishy, but anyone would have trouble texting after giving in to the temptation called Arak. By the time his friend arrives, Tony has at least inhaled half a bottle of the strong, anise-flavored liquor and is having trouble identifying the words on the laminated menu in front.

“Gonna get you home now, Tones.”

There is no anger in his low voice, no disappoint, only concern. Tony nods along, sways on his feet, and stumbles against his friend's chest as they leave the restaurant. “Ssssorry.” Rhodey keeps on mumbling soothing nothings into his side as he secures him in the passenger seat of his Chrysler before heading out. Thankfully, Tony is a cultured alcoholic who waits until he is home before he starts vomiting in public spaces.

Like Rhodey's car.

Okay, it happened in the past, but that has been ages ago, and Rhodey has a different car by now, but still. No puking on floor mats.

Tony manages to hold it together until they enter his apartment. With an unceremonious stumble into the bathroom and dropping to his knees, he immediately starts heaving the content of his stomach into the porcelain bowl. Rhodey stays to hold his forehead, his other hand rubbing steady circles into his trembling back. He even goes and flushes, handing Tony a couple of toilet paper squares to wipe his mouth with.

“This is about Bucky 'n Steve I take it.”

Rhodey's voice is soft; cautious. Tony drops the crumpled paper into the bowl and shifts so that his feet stop falling asleep.

“'mong other stuff, yeah.”

“Tell me.”

At that, Tony feels hit by a mental fist of guilt.

He has faded out the fate of his friends, seeing his mind had been somewhere else ever since he left the hospital. He snorts and wipes the back of a hand under his runny nose. “Just remembered when they had that accident and burnt in their car 'cause the firefighters didn' get to'em in time.” Rhodey gives a sharp inhale but says nothing. Instead, he gets up and fetches a towel which he ends up wetting under the faucet.

The coolness is pleasant on Tony's forehead and he takes it from his friend's hands to press it all over his face.

Truth to be told - his parents' deaths still shakes Tony several times a year, mostly when a job 'hits home' too close, so to speak. Usually, he has it under control -and without having to relent to booze to numb his feelings- but Commissioner Gordon's tale must have triggered some of the subconscious shit Tony usually is so good at blocking out and deflecting the hell out of, and it has hit him full force like a double-whammy.

When it had happened, young Tony had been full of anger, denial, grief, you name it. Most of all, however, he had been determined to do something about the situation of understaffed fire departments all over the country, so that his favorite career choice was a given. Or so he had thought. Sadly, his physical stats ruled out that possibility, and so he swallowed his frustrations and went to study engineering at MIT.

There, he met Rhodey who was two years older than him and keen on joining the Air Force. And he would even have succeeded, had James Rhodes not gone and mucked up his Career Development Course because of hanging out with little smart Tony Stark who had just discovered beer. And parties. And giving zero fucks about rules and curfews. Needless to say, Tony's guilt-issues had skyrocketed through the roof that month.

In between drinking and lamenting over being a bad influence for his one and only friend, Rhodey came to learn about the reasons for Tony's original career choice passion. And started looking around. Six months later, the two of them signed their contracts at the newly-found Avengers' squadron in New York. Nick Fury, a disabled war veteran with one good eye left, gave a hoot about stats and credentials. He saw potential.

Back in the present, Tony's stomach seems to not have anything left to share with the porcelain gods. After Rhodey has made him gargle and spit mouthwash into the sink, they move to switch locations. Tony feels Rhodey's grip tighten around his biceps as he leads him over into the bedroom. Thankfully, the blinds are already down and there's a glass of water and some painkillers on the nightstand.

Tony hears himself babble nonsense as he clumsily tries to help being stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt and ends up doing nothing after all. “Luv ya, platypus.” It earns him a ruffle through his hair. “You, too. Your phone's on the floor. Call if you need me. But for now - sleep.” Tony faintly hears the door being drawn shut before there is a key turning the lock. His woozy mind remembers Rhodey has a key to his apartment, too.

This is the last semi-coherent thought he has before drifting off into a slumber filled with weird, nightmarish dreams. He wakes six hours later in sweated sheets, with foul breath and a killer hangover, vowing to never let this happen again. That, Tony muses as he sits freshly-showered in his kitchen, sipping strong coffee while waiting for the washing machine to be done with his bedding, is the biggest self-deception of them all.

Because it will happen again. Only time will tell when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: "I Fought the Law" is a song written by Sonny Curtis. It became popular by a cover from the Bobby Fuller Four in 1966 and was also recorded by The Clash in 1979


	9. When The Heat Hits The Street

Because nothing is ever easy in this city, a heavy storm is upon Gotham only a few days later. Short two team members, the Avengers still rally out to cover the many emergency calls and support people whose roofs and trees and whatnot are flying through the air. Electricity is already down in a few parts of town, too, so time is of the essence.

Again, it is Officer Wayne who is the GCPD patrol to arrive on-scene before any of his colleagues.

This leaves Tony drumming a melody onto the steering wheel of his truck as he waits for further instructions from Rhodey, pondering the hows and whys Wayne must be a Time Lord of sorts to always be first when there is trouble brewing. His purple-prose musings then find a rather rough end when a thick tree next to him cracks with an ear-deafening noise and crashes right down on his driver cabin.

Safety glass splinters are flying everywhere, there is a loud crackle and a flash of lightning, and Tony's left side gets hit by what feels like a ton of bricks. He shields his face in the crook of an elbow, but the worst is over just as quick as it has come, and the world plunges into darkness.

Since Tony remains conscious the whole time, he figures the broken tree must have also hit the nearest utility poles, thus cutting off electricity around the whole block. With gritted teeth, Tony tries to wiggle free, but most of the cabin is so distorted that it is effectively trapping him inside while his team is unaware of his situation; busy helping the people whose house is halfway gone by now.

Something then lands on the truck's bonnet with a thump, making the twisted metal shudder anew. A bright beam of light is pointing inside and Tony squints and covers his eyes. He jerks back when the cracked but so-far unbroken windshield then gives way as it gets smashed in by a large, heavy flashlight, sending safety glass crumbling. It turns out the flashlight is wielded by no one else but Officer Wayne.

He has lost his trademark black ball cap and his hair is flapping in the wind. Their eyes meet, though Tony feels like the proverbial deer in the headlights. “Can you move?” Wayne's voice almost drowns in the raging storm. Numb, Tony nods along. As he tries to brace his hands against his seat and move towards his surprise savior, however, instant, fiery pain from his left erupts and he grimaces as his eyes start watering.

Through the agony, he hears Wayne barking at him to stay put, and before Tony gets to object, said officer flattens himself across the bonnet. Wayne then crawls forward on his stomach until he is hanging inside the dented cabin up to his waist. “Hold still.” With that, he reaches for a mangled armrest and starts pushing. From this angle, he has to use a lot of force to twist the sturdy material so that it allows Tony to go free.

The latter tries to shift back as much as possible to give Wayne room to work, but the surroundings are cramped and they are basically face-to-face. The Lieutenant's breath comes in short, punctuated gasps, and Tony catches a whiff of something pleasantly minty. He is just about to make a lame comment about Wayne chewing gum on his shift when the dented plastic-and-metal armrest comes off with a crunch.

Wayne's eyes then travel up to meet Tony's again.

When he wordlessly extends a hand, Tony grabs it without ado.

It is an arduous process, but they eventually manage.

By the time they got solid ground under their feet, both of them are panting harshly.

“You're injured.”

Those are the first words the Gothamite speaks ever since telling Tony to hold still. Tony snorts. “I'm fine.” It comes through gritted teeth. He eyes his smashed truck and the ruined house again. His team is still busy trying to evacuate people from the upper floors, and from the looks of it, they will be busy for a while longer. Wayne follows his gaze, however briefly, while thunder rolls in the distance.  
  
“Come on.”

“What?”

“You need to get that looked after.”

The Gothamite points at a place further down, and Tony follows his gaze, albeit with unseeing eyes. Still, the movement makes the pain from his chest flare up until he has to fight a sudden urge to black out or vomit. “Ugh. Shit.” It is then that Officer Wayne takes him by the elbow of his uninjured arm; stern and authoritative and unwavering.  
  
“Focus. Move.”

+

Without further protest, Tony allows Wayne to guide and pile him into his police car. He barely registers when they arrive at the emergency exit behind the Gotham Grand Hospital where he ends up getting wheeled into an x-ray unit faster than he could say uncle.

As it turns out, the collision tore a few ligaments and broke Tony's left collarbone.

He gets prodded and poked until he sports a dark-blue arm sling that consists of a stretchy fabric and smells strongly of poly-acrylic. By the time he is finally cleared to go home, he has a headache which is unsurprising, and the storm has given way to a heavy downpour.

What is more than surprising, however, is that Officer Wayne is still around as well, lurking in the shadows of the waiting area. Tony cannot help but wonder if Wayne has been concerned about his wellbeing or if he just wanted to make sure Tony does not go and molest the vending machines again. Tony then shuffles up to the man in question, who eyes his sling with a clinical once-over. “Still in babysitter mode, Officer?”

From the frown between Wayne's brows, Tony thinks he should have said something else. Too late. “Basic protocol, sorry to disappoint. Get in the car, I'll take you home.” Wayne sounds part petulant and part indifferent, and most of all not sorry at all. Tony clicks his tongue but shuffles along.

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

This shall remain their only verbal conversation from the waiting area to Tony's home address, a 15-minute drive. Much to his credit, Wayne does not remark on the neighborhood, though Tony could not care less even if his apartment would be right within the Narrows at this point. Tired and weary and hurting all over, he then less than elegantly unbuckles. And goes for a halfhearted attempt at something like a leer.

“Wanna come up and help me get my shirt off, Mr. Babysitter?”

At that, Wayne's already blank face goes even blanker before his mouth curls into open disapproval. “You wish.” Somehow, that hurt, though Tony probably should have expected a comeback like that. He is quick to charge it up to his miserable state. Oh, and to Wayne being a total fucker.

“Stop reading into things for fuck's sake, you're not even my type you entitled prick.”

This is a total lie of course, but Tony manages to all but snarl it at Wayne before he storms off. Although storming off does probably look better in his head because it is a bit of a fumble and stumble with one hand and while still being high on post-stressful jitters, but Tony Stark shall be damned if he does not at least slam the main door shut for a bit of satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: When The Heat Hits The Street is a song by Laura Branigan from 1985.


	10. Mr. Policeman

Inside his apartment, Tony leans back against the door and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Everything is swimming before his eyes and he has to close them, but after a few controlled intakes of air, he opens them again and shuffles into his bathroom to examine his overall state. It is not that bad, actually, apart from being sweat and soot-stained from head to toe and wearing a thick sling above his rumpled, favorite t-shirt, that is.

Getting the sling off proves easier than assumed, but the victory is short-lived as sharp pain spikes up when Tony attempts any type of contorting move to get out of his shirt. He has at least managed to wrestle his good arm free when the doorbell rings. Gritting his teeth, Tony ignores it and goes back to try undressing from another angle. Again, much to his frustration, this does not work.

Part of him rebels at the possibility of having to cut his shirt apart – the TMNT have been with him for over a decade now, like hell that is going to happen. Two short blips of the bell followed by a long buzzing sound then really grate on his already frayed nerves. It is all it takes for him to stomp over and yank the door open, still halfway in his shirt, eyes ablaze.

“What!?”

Wayne glares back, unfazed at the picture of misery half-dressed-and-disheveled Tony presents.

“Go sit on the couch.”

Tony wonders if he has a submissive streak he hitherto never knew existed because he ends up doing as Wayne says (inside his own four walls, even) without complaint and drops onto the edge of the sofa with a grunt. Wayne comes up on his injured side, not touching but merely assessing, or so it seems.

Tony then all but startles at the first brush of skin on his already freed, bare shoulder. Wayne's fingers are cool, his eyes focused on the injured shoulder joint as he works nimble fingers to peel off Tony's shirt with a surprisingly minimum of jostling until it lands in a crumpled heap in Tony's lap. “Showering is out of the question.” Tony glances up from the wonky faces of Leonardo and Donatello to meet the other man's gaze.

“How 'bout a bubble bath instead? I'd let you choose the bathing salts.”

Okay, that sounded better in his head, but in all fairness, Tony's head feels like it had close contact with a sledgehammer. Or six.

As expected, an awkward tension sets in. It results in Wayne scooting off the couch to escape his proximity with a frown.

“Get some rest.”

His eyes are looking everywhere but at Tony. He is gone before Tony even remembers to say thank you.

+

The next day, Tony wakes around 10:30 am and finds his phone and mailbox are spilling over with missed calls and voice mails from his teammates. Apparently, though, someone from the GCPD has seen to inform Fury and Rhodey about his condition, and Rhodey's texts are less frantic than most of the others.

They have a brief call once Tony managed to wolf down a bowl of Cheerios with milk and took a couple of painkillers to stomach a halfway decent cleaning session of his body. Rhodey tells him he has spoken to the team and everyone is wishing Tony a speedy recovery. This leads the conversation over to the obvious topic.

“What about Bucky? And Steve?”

Rhodey sighs into the receiver. “They couldn't save Bucky's arm. Steve is at home since yesterday afternoon, but he's... not doing good.” Tony curses and balls his left into a fist. A numb sensation travels up his injured arm but he ignores it. He feels help- and useless and damn awful for letting his team down in these times.

“Bullshit, Tones. We're all glad you're not hurt worse, you got that? And before you even start, we've got a couple of reinforcements sent our way.”

Tony did not even realize he must have said that part out loud. Still, the need for self-deprecation gets pushed aside when Rhodey's words sink in.

“... Reinforcements?”

“Yeah, Commissioner Gordon's himself has called. Told us we'd be getting four people for two weeks to cover for your absences.”

Tony mulls over that as Rhodey fills him in on the Gotham firefighters whom he has already met, and that they seem nice though not as versed in Avengers-style teamwork, which is to be expected. Listening along, Tony cannot help but wonder who has arranged all this. Sure as hell not Fury, right? Or maybe it was Fury after all, but there is another option Tony is thinking of, one which kinda seems too far-fetched and...

… a wonderful opportunity to get super-duper emotionally invested after all.

Not that he isn't already.

Damn.

+

Because he has far too much time on his hands during the following days of forced medical leave, Tony comes up with the hare-brained idea of inviting Wayne for lunch. He still owes the guy some sort of thank you, and since Tony is already fed up with the same pizza delivery of the past few days, the shawarma joint around the corner seems like an excellent idea.

His arm sling artfully hidden underneath a hoodie jacket, Tony shows up at the GCPD on a late Thursday afternoon and heads straight for the desk that reads Lt. Bruce Wayne. Its inhabitant is more than thrown for a loop at his unannounced visitor but gets distracted by a bypassing, widely-grinning Renee Montoya.

“Come to steal our Ltee away?”  
  
Tony grins back at her. He likes the Detective and her give-no-fucks attitude, what can he say.  
  
“Nah, he's not worth the lawsuit.”

They laugh in unison before Tony focuses back on the reason for his visit, who is watching their amicable exchange with something akin to a scowl. Once Montoya is gone, Tony is quick to announce his plan. Wayne's jaw protrudes in a petulant fashion. “I thought I was an entitled prick.”

That is not a no, Tony inwardly preens.

“Consider this your chance to prove me wrong then.”

Just then, Commissioner Gordon enters the bullpen and fastens his eyes on the two of them. With the smallest of smiles at Tony, Gordon is back to business in a split second. "Debrief in five, Lieutenant." Wayne gives a crisp nod and stands, reaching for a clipboard next to his keyboard. "Sir."

Before the small window of opportunity closes for good, Tony clears his throat.

"Okay then, see you tomorrow, 12:30 at Shawarma Bros." 

Wayne's confusion about the whole thing must be the reason he ends up agreeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: Mr. Policeman is a song by Brad Paisley from 2007


	11. I'm On Fire

On Friday at 12:30 sharp, Tony arrives to an even earlier Bruce Wayne huddled under the flimsy canopy of Shawarma Bros.

Instead of a proper greeting, Wayne flat-out utters his skepticism at not making it back to work in time.  
  
Lovely.

“Eating at your desk's unhealthy, even if you bring your own leafy greens along. Though, what's the point in cooking for one? Don't tell me you enjoy that. I sure don't.” Wayne snorts but follows him inside where they are instantly engulfed by the familiar aromatic swirl of herbs, meat, and tea. “I don't care.” Tony spots a free booth and slides into it, leaving his guest the seat facing the door. “Can't or don't wanna?” He gets a frown.

“What?”

Tony gives a patient smile.

“Cook. Can't or don't want to?”

Wayne's eyes drift from the menu above the counter to him. “What difference does that make?” This feeds into Tony's triumph. “Can't then. Well. If you ever remove the stick from your ass, I could whip up something for you and me.” A pause for theatrics, then Tony leans forward to conclude with the best shit-eating grin he owns. “... unless you need a hand with that stick-removal.”

Tony spends the next forty seconds laughing way too hard at his own joke and even has the audacity to state so. It was a good joke, after all.

Lips curled in wry amusement, Wayne reaches for the breadbasket that had been slipped onto their table by a passing waiter and proceeds to rip some of the pita bread apart with methodical fingers. “You'd never be able to get a search warrant.” He stuffs the bread in his mouth with an air of superiority, but there is a twitch in the corners of his mouth.

Tony's ongoing giggle fit proves to be contagious, and they end up laughing together for the first time in the history of knowing each other.

And damn if Tony does not revel in the fact that he made Officer Robot laugh.

They end up ordering a big combo plate with falafel, hummus, and baba ganouj, served over rice and salad with pita on the side, and an extra helping of shawarma. Wayne orders a Coke and Tony takes him up on it. “No Arak this time?” Wayne's voice is neutral, bordering on baiting, but Tony retaliates with a meek smile. “Nah. Me and booze have a kind of complicated relationship.”

Now Wayne regards him with utmost, dissecting seriousness, to which Tony lowers his cutlery and gives a one-sided shrug. “You live, you learn.” Tony then decides to take the bull by the horns and leans forward, careful with his injury and the plate of hummus close to his sleeve. “It was you who alerted the Commissioner to the reinforcement situation, am I right?”

Wayne goes to spear a small falafel onto his fork and into his mouth before he deigns to answer. “I merely wrote a mandatory report stating facts.” Tony tries to catch his gaze but Wayne is expertly dodging it. For a while, they simply eat in quiet solitude, until it surprisingly is Wayne who initiates a conversation. “Are your colleagues doing better?” Tony drags a piece of bread through a patch of baba ganouj on the side of his plate.

“They took Bucky's arm. Damage's been too big. Steve's not taking it too well, but who can blame him.”

At that, Wayne's face does a small, almost too easy to miss shift, so Tony swallows and decides to fess up.

“I, uh, know about the thing with you and Steve, y'know.”

Wayne is back to stonewalling the second the words have left Tony's mouth, so he is quick to add. “Though no one else from the team knows. Except, well, okay, Bucky, but...yeah, they're having other issues now.” Much to his surprise, Wayne does not get up and leave. Instead, he takes a sip of Coke and runs his thumb along the contours of the glass. Eventually, he exhales, though it sounds like a clandestine sigh.

“I made a mistake. Back then.”

It is a quiet admission, followed by nothing else. It also leaves Tony to wonder if Wayne is still interested in Steve, but apparently, the topic ruined the promising atmosphere, so he files the info away and tries to lighten the mood again. “Question for ya: If someone with multiple personalities threatens to kill himself - is that already considered a hostage situation?” Wayne pauses from where he was just about to drink again.

“... You can't be serious.”

With a look of utter importance, Tony makes a “C'mon” gesture after wiping his mouth. “Yes or no?” It earns him a thoroughly flat look as Wayne does take a sip and puts his glass down with a firm motion. “And here I thought firemen were educated.” Tony points a finger across the table. “I've got one word for you: Fucker.” Laughter dances in his eyes. All-deadpan, Wayne holds up an index and middle finger in a V, palm inward.

“I've got two: Disorderly conduct.”

They grin at each other again. Tony finds he has become attached to Wayne's smile in a short period of time. It turns out the dude has got some really prominent canines which give off an impression of him being part-vampire. Still, Tony figures, it is probably best to keep his weird musings to himself. “Well, Officer, I gotta tell you that I'll stand by my right of free speech.” Wayne leans back and makes an offhanded gesture.

“Good thing you'll pay for lunch then.”

The way the tip of his ears have significantly gained in color show he is far from being offhanded, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: Song written and performed by Bruce Springsteen (1985)


	12. We Didn't Start The Fire

Once Tony has paid and tipped generously, the two of them head out to leave. By now, Wayne's shift is about to start, and Tony decides to follow him over to where Wayne has left his bike because he is in mid-anecdote. He keeps on prattling and Wayne lets him until they round a corner.

“... and boy, there's something to be said about-”

“Shit!”

At the quiet hiss, Tony pauses and blinks twice with a baffled frown.  
  
“What??”

However, Wayne clearly is not looking at or speaking to him but busy staring at the mangled remains of his endurance bike laying in a puddle of dirty sewage. Apparently, someone has not seen it standing there upon backing up with their car, or truck. Now the front wheel is bent into a figure eight, its spokes squashed.

“Well, shit.”

Wayne says nothing upon Tony's less-than-helpful exclamation and bends down to lift the bike from the wet ground. Tony inspects the damage with a quick once-over. “I'll fix it.” That gets him the other man's attention. “Hardly.” The disbelief in his voice makes Tony's smile turns kind of wolfish. Or so he thinks. A good match for a vampire in any case. “Sure will. Drop it by my apartment and gimme a few days.”

Still glum, Wayne hoists up his bike on a shoulder and heads for the GCPD station on foot.

“We'll see. Thanks for lunch.”

Tony, whose R8 is parked around the corner of the shawarma restaurant, sadly cannot offer him to take his bike along because it would not fit into the trunk, so he simply inclines his head, shoves his hands into his pockets, and hollers out for Wayne to have a nice weekend before he heads back to his sportscar.

Back at his apartment, tired, and with his collarbone hurting from the multitude of activities, it occurs to Tony he did not ask Wayne for his number.

Then again, he could always swing by the GCPD. Dude practically lives at the police department, but still, it irks.

Dead-set on asking the reluctant oaf for his number next time, Tony eventually finds sleep.

+

After believing the grumpy Gotham cop would never take him up on his repair offer, Tony's doorbell rings four days later, on a Tuesday morning when he least expects it. He is still in his pajamas and enjoying a lazy late breakfast when he opens to Bruce Wayne who is decked out in full uniform minus a hat; his battered bike standing next to him. Tony leans his good shoulder against his doorway and adopts a cocky grin.

“Huh. Will wonders never cease.”

Wayne deliberately takes in his fitted, washed-out t-shirt stating _'Real women love firefighters – the rest marry cops'_ before a small, almost supercilious smirk curls his thin lips. “Really.” It sounds vaguely teasing despite the sincerity it is said with. Tony looks down to follow his line of view and hurries to brush some stray bread crumbs off his chest.

“It was a present.”

“From someone delusional, apparently.”

“Golly gosh, Wayne, don't develop a sense of humor, I don't know if I can take it.”

Unfazed, the cop thrusts the damaged bicycle at him. “You couldn't.” Baring his teeth in mock-laughter, Tony straightens up, takes the lightweight frame from him, and props the bike up against the wall of his empty corridor. He then throws the man who still hovers outside his apartment another glance. “Wanna come in for a cuppa joe?” Wayne shakes his head, albeit with a hint of an apologetic smile.

“I'm on in twenty.”

“So how do I get in touch with you once I'm done with your ride?”  
  
Tony's 'subtlety' earns him a frown and a cleared throat as Wayne averts his gaze.

“Just leave it at the station.”

Tony nods along, intensively inspecting the bike. Somehow he has pictured that to go better. Way better. Oh, well.

Wayne then reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thin wallet. Trying to gain back at least a bit of ground, Tony makes a tutting sound. “Oh, please. First one's a freebie. Though I do work better with the prospect of a little goodie.” Wayne gives him a blank stare. Tony cocks his head and makes a one-handed, rolling gesture with his wrist.

“... like... coffee? On your tab, if that wasn't clear.”  
  
There is that uncertainty hovering over Wayne's features again, but eventually, he nods and pockets his wallet.

“Alright.”

To make things even more socially awkward, he turns and walks away. Tony hangs onto his door frame to watch him go.

“See you around.”  
  
In mid-stride, Wayne casts him a look over his shoulder. This should not be as hot as Tony thinks it is. Still.  
  
“My bike, hopefully.”

His mouth quirks into a dirty smirk, and Tony all but glowers at him. What the heck is it with this fella?

He tells Wayne goodbye with a blown kiss upon a raised middle finger and closes the door. Tony then ends up taking the bike apart during the following hour; his coffee cooling next to him in its mug while he sits cross-legged on his carpet, a set of screwdrivers and other tools at hand, and gets acquainted with his new patient. At least the bike thankfully is not going to be as weird and complex as its owner, Tony muses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: We Didn't Start the Fire is a song by Billy Joel (1989)
> 
> Bruce's bike is supposed to look something like this:  
> https://www.cervelo.com/en/c3


	13. Light my Fire

When Tony is finally able and allowed to return to duty, he has long since finished the repairs on Officer Wayne's bike. He thus ventures out to test-drive it to the GCPD to return it to its owner. He is pleasantly surprised to find his collarbone and shoulder girdle being able to work through the motions of holding on to the handlebars without any pain at all.

He has not set more than ten steps into the busy bullpen before Wayne has spotted him and is coming his way, taking the bike from him and securing it outside the station. Part of Tony finds this hush-hush game amusing, the other part of him regrets not making use of the opportunity to stroll into the police department hollering out "Delivery for Officer Tight Buns".

Then again, he very much wants to live to see the New York Knicks play next season.

Much to his surprise, he actually ends up being invited in return, though his host is more than dispassionately vague.

“I need coffee. Come on.”

Well, Tony has certainly heard more romantic invitations, but who is he to complain.

They leave the bike behind and trot over to the little coffee shop Tony has sorely missed during his recuperation period. Wayne does not even bat an eyelid at Tony's request of a Caffè mocha with whipped cream and a cinnamon bun and adds a flat white and a piece of salted caramel shortbread to his order. Tony waits with saying his thanks until they have been served and are sitting on two high chairs at the window front.

“I'll let you know I'm thoroughly disappointed now, by the way.”

Instantly on guard, Wayne gives him a pointed look. “Why?” With a sweet smile, Tony scrapes a dollop of whipped cream off his Caffè mocha and dumps it onto his cinnamon bun. “No donut. You blatantly ignore the obligation to feed into my stereotype clichés about cops.” To reinforce his statement, he takes a hearty bite of his pasty. As expected, it tastes heavenly. Smirking, Wayne then motions from his nose to Tony's.

As Tony is quick to wipe a smudge of whipped cream away with his sleeve, Wayne snorts with halfhearted exasperation and stirs his coffee before taking a sip. “Says the non-stereotypical firefighter.” It is said without spite and a bit of a teasing note instead. Tony watches him use the complimentary dessert fork to slice into his shortbread, breaking it down into bite-sized morsels.

“This about my height? Cause I'm so over that, buster.”

With an air of serenity, Wayne puts the fork aside and picks up one piece of his shortbread. “Touchy.” He pops the cake into his mouth and gives Tony a dose of his own, shit-eating grin. Like anytime Wayne smiles, Tony is quick to forgive and forget, though he shall be damned if he does not get in the final word. “No, I'm good. I'll have you know my ego's certainly big enough to compensate for it. Among other things.”

Okay, this was one of his more cringe-worthy pick-up lines, so he pairs it with a wink as their eyes meet again.

Not for the first time, Wayne, who still hasn't offered Tony to call him by his first name (which Tony finds partly irksome, and partly adding a certain mysterious touch to the whole getting-to-know-you-spiel) decides to man up to the verbal challenge when Tony least expects it.

“Sounds like a burden of proof situation.”

Tony's eyebrows rise almost on their own accord.

“Oooh, I love it when you talk legal to me. We should do this more often in the future.”

With that, Tony puts his mug against his lips to taste the Caffè mocha. It is sweet with a subtle touch of bitter chocolate and decently caffeinated, and he licks excess cream off his upper lip with a small, appreciative moan. And that is when he catches Wayne staring at his mouth before he is quick to swallow and inspect the crumbs on his plate instead. “Rather difficult, with you leaving Gotham in less than two weeks.”

The words are factual and they douse Tony like a bucket of cold water over his head.

“... What?”

Wayne's eyes flicker up to dart in between his, maybe looking for a sign that Tony is (again) joking, but upon seeing the honest puzzlement shining back, he gives some sort of lopsided curl of the mouth. “Commissioner Gordon spoke to your battalion chief this morning. He said your job here is done at the end of the month. Surely you must have been informed.”

All of a sudden, Tony's Caffè mocha leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He makes a lackluster effort at poking at his bitten-off cinnamon bun, pushing it around on his plate, smearing whipped cream everywhere. “Huh. Didn't get the memo. Must be somewhere in my unread items.” When Wayne says nothing and goes back to drinking his coffee as if nothing has happened, Tony also picks up his mug.

His previous flirty mood has evaporated and left him feeling foolish to even suggest exchanging numbers. And so they finish their beverages and stroll back to the police station making small talk about bikes. Tony's smile is wistful as they walk up to where the item in question stands secured in front of the GCPD. “All things considered, you're quite lucky I got to finish working on your precious in time.”

Wayne's glance is hesitant. "Sure I don't owe you anything?" Tony shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shakes his head. "Nah, we're good. Wasn't all that much." He purposely keeps the many hours spent cursing at the many delicate spokes which needed to be wrestled back into their proper shape and place to himself. A few officers are passing through just then, nodding a greeting that Wayne returns.

Once they are gone, Tony clears his throat and starts to rock a little back and forth on his heels. “Tell me if it's not running as smoothly as you think. There's still time for adjustments.” Wayne hunkers down to inspect the wheel from various angles before he straightens back up.

“Thanks.”

An awkward silence erupts like it is wont to do in the presence of Officer Bruce Wayne, apparently. As they stand and stare at each other like the biggest cliché in any of those coming-of-age flicks they show on Netflix, the spell is broken by Clint Barton who starts yelling at Tony from across the street, waving him over. Small frown in between his brows, Wayne glimpses at Barton's fidgeting and back to the man by his side.

“Your welcoming committee is getting nervous.”

It sounds neutral if a bit amused. Tony sighs and motions for Clint to get lost. Clint gives him the finger.

“Yeah. Guess I better go and feed him his ADHD medication.”

As Tony is about to cross the street and meet his fellow teammate, a quiet voice calls after him.

“Hey, New York-”

At Tony's confused expression, Wayne's face goes inexplicably soft and smug at the same time. This confuses Tony even more.

“See you around.”

It takes two seconds for Tony's lips to part in surprised and honest delight.

“You bet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: Light My Fire is a song by The Doors (1967)


	14. Fire Meet Gasoline

At the firehouse, only Clint and Banner are present; the rest is either out and about or sleeping after their shift has ended. Clint is the one who fills Tony in on everything he missed out upon at Fury's team call this morning. “We tried to call you, man, but you weren't answering your phone.” Right. Tony remembers how he forgot to unmute it, busy showering and deciding on an outfit for his not-quite-coffee-date.

“...and guess what – they're throwing a big Thank You party on behalf of our notable deeds for the city. The Commissioner and his squad. Isn't that something?” That is something indeed, Tony thinks. Idly, he wonders if Wayne will be hanging balloons all over their station and quickly dismisses the thought because Clint keeps nattering on.

“Also, you better hurry cause Fury's already been putting up lists as to who's gonna be on duty that evening. Hint: it's not gonna be me.”

Dutifully, Tony thus makes his rounds, checks up on his upcoming schedule and the list for active duty Clint spoke about, and ends up running into a flushed and sweated-looking Steve. When Tony spots the broken punching bag on the ground behind him, oozing sand, he braces himself for what is about to come. “In the mood for a post-workout snack, Cap? My treat.” Steve only nods and leaves for the shower area.

Tony jogs back to the café and ends up buying three herb Foccacia grilled cheese sandwiches because Steve always works up an appetite tearing gym equipment apart. He is quick to return and spends the time waiting to make small talk with Banner who just woke up. As matters stand, a lot of things have happened in his absence. Bucky's injuries have forced him to retire from active duty, and it puts a damper on everyone's mood.

Especially Steve's, who is still in denial about his partner's fate. He and Fury have already clashed behind closed doors, yelling at each other about recruiting. Banner scratches at the back of his head and suppresses another yawn. “Good thing you're back, Tony. If anyone can cheer Steve up, it's you.” Smile tight, Tony nods and pats Banner's arm. “I'll do my best.”

+

Once Steve reappears, cheeks rosy and hair still damp, Tony and he retreat to the firehouse's rooftop area.

Clint and Rhodey have seen to put up a couple of camping chairs and a rickety plastic table a few days after moving in, and on those days where the rain holds off, the Avengers enjoy a bit of a breather atop the city. Tony reclines, slurps on an ice tea, and watches his buddy inhale the first two sandwiches in little to no time. Eventually, Steve puts the third, half-eaten sandwich down and wipes a paper napkin over oily lips.

“Bucky's never gonna be able to return to active service.”

His eyes narrow as he crumples the innocent napkin.

“I-”

Tony pauses. Nothing he is about to say is going to come off right, is going to sound right, is going to make any difference.

“-wish it wasn't like that.”

Steve attempts a smile but it comes out heartbroken. “We'll get through this, of course, but there was so much we wanted to do, and now everything is...” He pauses to drop the paper ball into the wrapper. “Life is short, Tony. I mean, we know that in our profession, but you always go in thinking that it's not gonna be you, know what I mean?” Tony knows. And he nods. “We'll be back home soon. Familiar grounds and all that.”

It is Steve's turn to nod, vigorously at that as he picks up his half-eaten sandwich.

“I cannot wait to get out of this damned city for good.”

Funny, Tony muses, eyes traveling out across Gotham's skyline. That is not what it feels like for him.

+

Two days later, the bells go off at the firehouse. All Avengers scramble up from their card game of Oh Hell! and make a run for the firemen's poles to head down to engine bay. It is Tony's first mission after being benched, and he revels in getting behind the wheel after a period of inactivity as he shrugs into his jacket. A large junkyard down at the Narrows has erupted in a blaze, for reasons hitherto unknown.

In this part of Gotham, it's likely arson, because people are whack and poor and crazy enough to even set fire to their shitty surroundings.

As the radio cackles with the surrounding fire departments responding -including Metropolis, which is just across the bridge from Gotham- Tony's truck gets overtaken by a massive black Taurus Interceptor doing at least 80 mph, sirens blasting and swerving around slow-responding traffic in daring maneuvers. Smirking along, Tony puts his foot down and floors it. If Officer Wayne can break the speeding limit, so can he.

Despite the hot pursuit, he ends up having to jam the air breaks hard because an unsuspecting school bus driver just happens to not have heard the crescendo of Q-sirens and airhorns and sirens from miles away. Ignorant moron. They arrive at the scene to stacks of junked vehicles already engulfed in flames and with a tower of black smoke billowing over the area.

Wayne's Interceptor stands with flashing lights still on, its driver out and about to instruct his colleagues to shut down all bridges leading to and from the Narrows. Once Tony roars past him on the only bridge still vacant to use, there is a brief moment where their eyes lock. Wayne looks tense as he speaks into his radio, and Tony gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile before they head towards the flaming inferno.

From close up, the fire is enormous, and all the different materials like rubber tires, oil tanks, chemical fluids, and vehicle interior make for a dangerous, toxic mixture. More fire battalions arrive by the minute, and everyone springs into action immediately. The Avengers position themselves at the center of the yard, approaching the fire in Steve's suggested try for a pincer movement.

To their left, a truck from the Metropolis Fire Department is rolling out hoses and starting to get to work. There are not enough fire hydrants free to use at present, and Metropolis is forced to rely on the 1,000 gallons inside their own truck for time being. The police forces are working on clearing all parked-up cars to free needed resources when somewhere on the other side, a heavy explosion goes off; likely a gas tank.

All firefighters back off, though with their hoses still in position. Steve appears out of the thick air, waving for Barton and Romanov to come together for a quick team talk. The wind is picking up speed which tugs and tears at their uniforms. “We gotta get in from the other side. Otherwise the fire will continue to spread further south.” A fireman from Metropolis, who has overheard their conversation pipes in.

“Forget it. No way you'll make it with temperatures in the high triple digits.”

Tony throws the guy a, what he hopes can be recognized as the stink-eye it is, behind his visor. “You're not calling the shots here, bucko. Hold your flank and get lost.” Before things can escalate, Lieutenant Wayne, also wearing a mask to filter out toxic fumes, approaches them. “We've cleared three more fire hydrants. Move your people, Clark.” Unbeknownst to everyone around, Tony's jaw twitches.

_Clark?_

Wayne and 'Clark' have a brief stare-down that eventually ends with the man from Metropolis complying, though not without a final, sinister glance at Steve and Tony. Once he is gone, Wayne turns to Steve. “What's your plan?” Steve squints at the piled-up stacks of metal. “We shouldn't waste too much water. If we get to the other side, we'll can let burn what's already fully involved, contain it within a tight area, and narrow it down.”

He gets a nod in return. Wayne then reaches for his comm. “Blake? Firetruck's about to enter Bridge Five. Let them pass through.” Static rustling, then a young voice answers. “Copy, that Lieutenant.” Wayne eyes Tony and Steve again.

“Good luck.”

+

Later on, when the fire is out and everyone is exhausted and packing up, walking through sodden grime and the stink of burnt rubber hanging in the air, Tony sees firefighter Clark again. He is leaning against Wayne's Interceptor, talking animatedly. Wayne stands aside, arms crossed and shaking his head ever so often. When Clark eventually takes off his helmet, it causes Tony, hanging on the steps of his truck, to stop and stare.

Clark has a head full of dark curls and a smile that blinds, even from afar. Maybe it is due to his face being covered in soot that his teeth are so white, but still. Tony's analytical mind cannot help but to notice and admit that Clark is gorgeous. And just the right size for a firefighter.

Unlike... well.

He gives a forceful exhale and uses momentum to swing his butt up into his driver's seat, turning the keys. Officer Wayne's attention switches from a still talking Clark to the Avengers' truck as it rolls past them to leave the premises. Tony lets it come to a shuddering halt and puts his arm up on the rolled-down window. “Some party. Call me if you're game to weld an entire Optimus Prime out of all the melted stuff around.”  
  
His eyes then find and stay on Clark from Metropolis. Fuck, from close up, the guy looks even more like he was meant to be on every centerfold of those charity firefighter calendars that have hot dudes posing with cute puppies or something.

It is thoroughly disgusting.

“Be sure to visit Manhattan sometime. I'd love to watch you bumble your way down Fifth Avenue trying to get to the high rise fire two blocks down.”

With that, Tony gives a casual two-finger salute against his temple and shifts into gear. In the rearview mirror, he can make out Clark's stupefied expression. What is more important, however, is how Wayne's gaze is following their truck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: Fire Meet Gasoline is a song by Sia (2014)
> 
> Those charity firefighter calendars *do* exist:  
> https://www.boredpanda.com/hot-firefighters-with-puppies-calendar-charity-australia/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic
> 
> ... and as for Clark...  
> https://i.pinimg.com/236x/d0/90/80/d09080bf7734152c3f05332a93ee0304--british-men-henry-cavill.jpg  
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/39/4c/2b/394c2b7985a87bf42265000bbc69ec54.jpg
> 
> (oh, Tony *pats head*)


	15. Hot In The City

On the night of the party, the firehouse is booming with music and crammed with cops and firefighters alike. Commissioner Gordon's department has made sure there will be enough food, music, and drinks to last them throughout the whole night. Still, some of them are on emergency duty, so they stick to non-alcoholic beverages, among them non-voluntary designated driver Tony Stark who grouses at his friends.

“Seriously, guys, forget about it. Go call a cab. I ain't your damn chauffeur.”

In truth, he is glad for their concern-marked-as-fun reminder he and booze do have a finicky relationship. As Springsteen's voice over the PA system booms out the chorus line of 'I'm Going Down', Tony's eyes spot the Commissioner and Officer Wayne in a corner of the firehouse, close to one of the makeshift bar counter.

They are deep in conversation over two bottles of what looks to be Coke, and oblivious to Tony's scrutiny. All of them are wearing civilian clothes tonight, which means Gordon has ditched his obligatory trenchcoat and is displaying a short-sleeved, checkered button-down without a tie. He kind of reminds Tony of a good teacher he had at the fire academy who gave courses on the principle of building construction.

Wayne looks like he always does in a black shirt, though he has paired it with denims and sneakers tonight. His outfit may be simple, but the fitted cut emphasizes his physique well. Before Tony stops ogling him and starts planning how to initiate a talk without involving liquid courage, Rhodey slaps his arm. “C'mon, Tones. Time to fight for your honor.” Annoyed at having his fantasies interrupted, Tony glowers at him.

“Ain't got any left, YOU of all people should know."

Still, Rhodey remains persistent.

“Those canaries over there think they can beat us.”

He points over to where Detective Stephens and Officer Montoya stand at next to a table-soccer table, looking all smug.

Table soccer is a field where Tony's nonexistent honor still applies.

So he goes and busies himself challenging Detective Stephens and Officer Montoya to a game of three rounds; loser has to pay for the other party's ride getting a cleanse. Seeing their loaned vehicles are in dire need of a scrub before the Avengers leave Gotham, it seems a perfect opportunity to skip the cleaning on their last day. Besides, Rhodey and Tony have been owning people for ages, so it should be an easy one.

Turns out, Montoya is a little shit who has been playing with and against her brothers all the time back at home. They end up getting owned two times out of three until Rhodey quits with a look of exasperation. “Not playing on Team Loser any longer, man.” Tony flings a stained cardboard coaster at him. “You gotta talk, Platypus. Your defense was straight up shit.” Montoya throws them pitiful glances over the bottleneck of her beer.

“Amateurs. Both of you. I want my car vacuumed, trunk included, and with a waxing finish.”

That is when Tony leaves his spot at the soccer table to an unsuspecting Clint Barton and Donald Blake, forks over 20 bucks to Montoya, and saunters off, looking to pick up on his original plan. However, Wayne and Gordon have relocated and are nowhere to be seen. Instead, Tony spots their team leader at the bar. From the way Steve's cheeks are flushed, he must be well on his way to getting perfectly sloshed.

Thus, Tony gets ready for an intervention of sorts. Steve normally does not drink. At all. However, since Bucky's accident, things have changed within their team leader. All of them know. By now, Tony assumes Steve to have PTSD in some form or another, but he assumes as well the latter does not want to hear about it. Yet, Tony feels compelled to urge his friend to take up professional help.

He inches his denim-clad butt onto a barstool next to him and leans in close to be understood over the ruckus of the music. Naturally, Steve declines. Apparently, tipsy Steve is just as determined as sober Steve. Tony tries another angle. “Yeah, but what if Bucky has it? Or develops it? We're talking trauma here.” Steve runs a hand through his hair and it makes his bangs flop all over his forehead when he lowers his gaze.

“I'll be with 'im till the end of the line, an' he knows that.”

He is slightly slurring some of the words and strings them together. Tony frowns. “Look, you know what they say: Be empathetic, but don't be emotional.” Upon his quiet words, Steve snorts and takes another big gulp of his beer. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Suuure. Those shrinks who never a day served the public. They say that. Sure.” Tony shoves a handful of peanuts in his mouth and flicks pieces of shell off the counter as he chews.

“Still. See about getting help if things are bleak. You 'n Bucky. I'm serious, Cap. I care 'bout you guys.”

Steve, eyes already red from too much alcohol, then puts a heavy, warm palm on Tony's shoulder

“Thanks.”

Thankfully, it is Tony's right and uninjured shoulder, because Steve does not know his own strength sometimes, even if it is meant to be amicable as he adds in a squeeze. Tony gives him a warm, honest smile. “Anytime, Steve-O.” Without warning, Steve then leans in and engulfs him in a bear hug. Because of the momentum that comes with it, Tony has to awkwardly hold on to the counter as to not topple off backward.

His other arm goes around Steve's massive back, alternating between patting and holding-on-for-dear-life motions. From atop the rounded back of his buddy, Tony notices the familiar silhouette of Bruce Wayne watching them from across the room. The way his face goes blank at the current picture they present is unmistakable, and there is a shift in his posture only seconds later before he turns and heads the other way.

Shit. Fucking shitfuck.

Tony groans out loud. From afar, it must have looked like something else entirely, with their heads together and everything. At the sound, Steve draws back and catches his gaze. “Wha's wrong?” Tony rubs a hand over his face and pulls a grimace, pointing his chin at the now retreating Officer Wayne. “Gotham cop just took our hug the wrong way I guess. There goes all my thawing work of the past weeks.”

If Steve finds it wrong or weird that Tony aims for banging the same dude like him, he does not show it.

“I'll fix this.”

With that, Steve shoves his empty beer bottle aside and slides off the barstool to push through the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: A song by Billy Idol (1982)


	16. (Baby, You're A) Firework

“Wayne! Wait!”

Said man slows his steps but does not stop. He glimpses over his shoulder to see Steve Rogers jog after him.

“What?”

“That wasn't what it looked like, kay?”

Steve gets a thoroughly blasé look in return.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

It sounds acerbic. Steve rolls his eyes, though he goes a bit crosseyed at doing so. “He's a good guy, an' he doesn't deserve bein' treated like shit, kay?” Wayne stops walking and puts his arms akimbo as he finally turns around. “Wouldn't you know about that.” By now, they are standing between the large firetrucks and the exit gate, and the main ruckus of the party is nothing but an unintelligible mix of music and mumbling. 

“'bout what?”

Despite the dim light, Steve's angry squint is visible. Wayne's laconic tug around the mouth intensifies.

“Treating people like shit.”

Instead of lashing out like his opponent might have expected, Steve rubs his nape. “I... I'm sorry for what happened back then, kay? Bucky and I had a bad falling out that time, and when he called, I-” His cheeks are flushed; from alcohol and his bumbling words. He braces one hand against the cold metal of a truck. “- didn't mean to set you up, kay? Believe me or not, I really don' care. But don' take it out on-”

Steve jerks his head back over into the overall direction of the party, and, subsequently, Tony. “He's a good one. Truly is. One of my best friends.” Stoic as ever, Wayne keeps on regarding him until Steve looks down, yet another angry, drunken frown between his brows. After a while, Wayne takes a deep breath. And lowers his arms until they hang at his sides. “I hope Barnes recovers and you get to sort things out.”

They hold each other's gaze for the first time since running into each other in Gotham.

Steve gives a solemn nod and then, after a moment of hesitation, extends a hand.

Wayne looks at it for a good two seconds before taking it.

+

Once Steve returns to the scene, Tony is still sitting on the barstool, albeit nervous, if the bounce in his left leg and the drumming of his fingers on the countertop are anything to go by. His eyes are quick to scan his buddy and the area behind him. “... you're alone. Oh - no. No, no. Please don't tell me you've decked him in an alley outside.” Steve vigorously shakes his head and holds onto Tony as his world spins too fast for his liking.

“Nonono, we... we're good I guess. I 'pologized, kay? And he... I dunno where he went.”

Steve makes a waving gesture that nearly sends him stumbling headfirst into a couple of female police officers next to them at the bar. They giggle at his embarrassed simper, so Tony smiles and eases him onto the nearest barstool before he waves Natasha over to take care of their team leader. He scoots through the firehouse, checking the restroom area and the makeshift wardrobe area where he hits pay dirt.

“You leaving?”

Bruce Wayne glances over his shoulder as he slips into a black jacket. At Tony stating the obvious, he pulls a face and zips it all the way shut. “Yes. Enjoy the rest of the party.” He shoves his hands into the pockets and stalks off. Tony is left flabbergasted for a good three seconds.

After that, he is in hot pursuit.

“Oh, come on! Wait up will ya.”

Wayne does not turn around again to watch him close up, but soon enough, Tony falls into lockstep with him. This lasts exactly two blocks until he ends up huffing and puffing. “Man, slow it done some. What are you, on the run? That'd be funny.” Wayne seems to fight the urge to roll his eyes but does ease up on his long strides. They walk in silence, and Tony cannot help but notice how his eyes are constantly roaming around.

“It's like being escorted by my own personal Super Cop.”

At the look he gets, Tony shrugs. “There's no one around, relax.” It earns him a tight smirk, even if Tony can only see it in profile.

“Force of habit.”

Instantly, Commissioner Gordon's words from the night at the hospital come to Tony's mind.

And just like that, he leaves his escort be.

From the occasional glance, he can see Wayne looks like he is trying to make small talk but does not know how to. So naturally, Tony takes the initiative once they reach the junction where their paths would now divide. “Hey, maybe you should escort me home in all of your Super Cop glory. It's late and this is Gotham after all.”

“That's a detour for me.”

Wayne's objection is purely for show, seeing that he keeps on walking next to Tony right into Uptown. Eventually, they have to stop at a red light. There are no cars in sight, but Tony stops himself from jaywalking seeing it is likely to give him a bad rep with his righteous company. He steals a glimpse to his right, all casual.

“By the way. Has Steve apologized? He can be a bit stubborn to admit he effed up.”

Tony may try for casual, but the way he drums his fingers against his thighs betray him dearly. Wayne's jaw works, then he swallows. “Yes.” He keeps his gaze fixated ahead as if to stare the red traffic light to death. Nothing follows, so Tony rolls his eyes. “You're welcome, by the way. And no, you don't owe me anything.” At that, Wayne snorts. “My job is to save your ass, not kiss it." Tony clicks his tongue in rebuke.

“What if you do get to do both? I mean, have you _seen_ my ass?”

Wayne graces him with a sideways glance, though his expression remains deadpan.

“Nothing to write home about, I bet.”

Tony's mouth forms a scandalized O that is only part mocking.

Once the pedestrian light shows green, they resume their walk which has morphed into a pleasant stroll by now. It is then that Wayne clears his throat. “Thanks for your effort.” A Cheshire grin. “Which one precisely?” Wayne scowls into the night, though it is not aimed at Tony directly. His grumpiness earns him a serene smile.

“Yeah, no worries. I like my friends getting along with each other.”

Wayne's brows furrow at that. “Friends?” Tony nods. “Sure, yeah. Or do you prefer the term mutual acquaintances? Think that one doesn't do us justice.” Wayne lapses into silence, which was to be expected, and Tony does not push further seeing they have just arrived at his apartment block.

“Well. Here we are.”

It feels just as superfluous as it sounds, but Tony cannot help himself. Officer Wayne is back to frowning, at whom or what remains unclear. Tony almost resorts to making another idiotic quip to clear the air when his companion clears his throat again, softer this time, and catches his gaze.

“Both don't.”

Wayne's expression is somber, almost analytical as he says it. Tony arches his left eyebrow in utter confusion.

“Huh?”

Upon the less-than-stellar question, Wayne slips his hands from his pockets with a look of pure concentration.  
  
“Friends don't do this.”

If Tony has been surprised by the sudden candor, he is taken by an even bigger surprise when Wayne takes his face in between his palms and kisses him, right there and then, in front of the doorbell nameplate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title info: 'Firework' is a song by Katy Perry (2010)


	17. Hearts On Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of non-graphic m/m situation

There are downsides to living at a multi-rental apartment block. The biggest of them cleary is being interrupted by people coming and going at all times despite the late hours. That, and you can only press the button for the staircase lighting ever so often before the grumpy old hag from the ground floor starts yapping at you over the intercom.

Bruce's fingers are warm and long, and they keep hold of nearly all of Tony's face until the latter draws back, breathless. “Uhh... wanna - wanna come up?” Bruce nods, his breath, too, coming in rapid gusts as if he has just run a mile at high speed. He hovers close by while Tony fishes for his keys and fiddles with the lock.

Inside Tony's apartment, they stumble and fumble their way over to the bed, which has not been made this morning, but neither of them cares. All they care about is getting their pants off and getting each other off. This results in a mutual handjob in the dark that, sadly, is over far too soon.

They squint as the lamp on the nightstand comes on, and while Bruce is still trying to get rid of the residue with a clean tissue, Tony is already a few steps ahead of his game. “Stay the night?” His bluntness earns him just a brief look of uncertainty. “Okay.”

What is funny is that once their initial hunger is sated, they spend almost the entire rest of the night kissing. Not that Tony minds. Bruce Wayne kisses like he does everything in life, apparently. With determination and skill. Because of it, they end up getting less than three hours of sleep.

The next morning, Tony holds up to his promise of being an excellent cook and provides his overnight guest with an opulent breakfast. Over French toast, omelet, and an extra-strong brew of coffee, he ends up explaining his plans for individual modifications on Bruce's bike. Once his initial bleariness is gone, there is pride in Tony's voice as he goes into some of the possible details he has thought about.

There could be changes to tire width for comfort even without sacrificing speed, shock-absorbing gel pads underneath the bar tape for a pain-free grip, and switching the suspension seat post for better absorption. His cop listens and is trying hard not to be impressed. And fails, of course. Tony's tinkering genius gets them all. Bruce swirls the rest of his coffee in its mug before downing it like a life-saving potion.

"If the offer still stands after you're back in New York.”

It sounds casual, but Tony can see the way Bruce's fingers tap against the side of the mug, and the way he is focusing on its ceramic handle to avoid telling eye contact. Tony gets up to fetch the pot from the stove. "Sure does. My apartment's far more comfortable than this temp coop. Bigger, too. Ever been to New York?" He drops back into his chair after sharing the remaining coffee equally within their two mugs. Bruce nods.

"A few times. Day trips only."

"Oh, you'd be staying the night, no worries. Don't get any funny ideas of coming over by bike, though. That's a four to five-hour trip."

And just like that, the brief bout of insecurity on Bruce's face is gone and replaced by its usual smug and slightly ironic expression. 

"Duly noted."

+

After breakfast, Bruce is adamant about getting back to his own apartment for matters of personal hygiene and a few hours rest before the start of his working day. Tony feels a surge of panic bubble up from deep within his set of buried insecurities, and so he does what comes naturally when faced with feelings: He starts deflecting and quips the heck out of the situation.

That, however, only works until Bruce presses him into the corridor wall and kisses him like he is going to war. He tastes of mouthwash, faint honey and coffee, and any doubts whatsoever leave Tony's mind as his body is tingling with giddy, renewed arousal. When Bruce releases his lips, he keeps their foreheads together while running his fingers over the delicate bones behind Tony's ears.

It is quite endearing just how touchy-feely the guy is when Tony spent weeks thinking of him as Officer Robot (sometimes with an added expletive for good measure).

“Come by after work.”

Upon the breathy invitation, Tony mentally draws up their rolling rota work schedules and does the math.

“You mean tomorrow at 8 am.”

He gets graced with another vampire-like smile.

“Yeah.”

Before Tony is able to point out that he still has no idea where to find him other than at the police station, he receives another toenail-curling kiss. Then Bruce is gone, skipping down the stairs until Tony hears the main door fall shut in its lock. As he meanders back into his apartment, everything is quiet and surreal. He forces himself to put away the remains of their joint breakfast, only to pause at the kitchen counter.

A piece of paper has been left there. It holds a hastily scribbled address and phone number.

Tony's smile deepens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by John Cafferty (1986)


	18. Hot in Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of m/m scenes in this chapter, though non-graphic

As it turns out, the address Tony has been given is in West Village, also Uptown. The apartment he walks into is neat and tidy and furnished rather sparsely but with attention to detail. Tony is about to geek out over two crossed Katana swords on an otherwise bare wall when his nostrils get a whiff of something.

Something good.

“Why you heathen, you said you can't cook.”

Bruce the treacherous fucker continues to calmly whip out yet another batch of self-made pancakes and stacks them on a plate. He looks tired but freshly showered, and his small smile borders on serene. “I never said a thing. You assumed.” It is then Tony notices the bar counter has been set for two, and there is a tall glass of OJ waiting for him. It is freshly squeezed, not the cheap supermarket kind.

Tony slips onto a barstool and slurp-grumbles through half of his glass before a plate is put under his nose. After moaning around the first forkful of heavenly pancake with maple syrup, he pierces his host with a look. “How'd you get them so fluffy?” Bruce, who sits next to him and had been watching him devour breakfast with a far too content expression, spears a blueberry into his mouth.

“Protein powder.”

“Please tell me you're planning on working out shirtless while I'm here.”

Tony's leery charm prompts a smolder.

“Depends on what kind of workout we're talking about.”

Hot damn. And just like that, it is Tony who ends up being flustered. To gain back some ground, he adopts a cheeky expression. “What else is gonna surprise me regarding your person in the upcoming weeks?” Automatically, Bruce's eyes travel over to the swords on the wall before they flicker down to his plate.

“I spent several years abroad.”

Tony instantly gets flashbacks to the boxing match. “So you do a mean Mongolian buffet as well?” An extremely guarded look spreads out over Bruce's face. “Who told you?” Now it is Tony's chance to look smug. “Our EMT's been backpacking through many rural Asian regions and recognized your tribal war chant. At Guns&Hoses.” Bruce's puzzlement morphs into understanding. “Ah.”

Tony thinks about mentioning Commissioner Gordon's revelations but decides against it because there are far more pressing issues to be taken care of after breakfast. Namely roundabout 200 lbs of muscle which end up lifting him from underneath his buttocks like he is a dainty damsel in a terrible, badly-casted chick flick. He voices as much, only to be dropped backward onto a rather solid surface. Turns out it is Bruce's bed.

The latter hovers above him, with a roguish smirk that does things to Tony's already raging hormones. “It's going to be you who gets to fuck me, though.” With that, Bruce reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in one fluent motion. The view coupled with the statement renders Tony speechless. He wills his brain to fight for at least some of the blood rushing to his dick to keep up any neuronal activity.

He has been dating so many manly dudes who refused to take it up the ass because it clashed with their misogynistic attitude. Here, though; here is a very fine specimen who has seen his not-so-unimpressive package and still wants it. All of it. Tony has to try very hard not to fall in love. (because that would scare Bruce off before they even determined which direction their not-so-one-night-stand is going and just suck in general)

Instead, he goes and pulls out every trick in his book until he has a very wanton Gothamite at his mercy. It does not take Tony long to admit to himself he has not had as satisfying a fuck as Bruce for as long as he can remember. He is sure he is exceptionally loud and borderline porn-star-esque during their coupling, but the blissed-out expression of his bedside partner tells him Bruce also seems to have enjoyed himself.

Once they lay next to each other, and the condom and the mess have been taken care of, Bruce goes into instant sleeping mode. He yawns into Tony's bare shoulder and draws him close. Tony -equally whumped after yet another rather draining night, this time due to work- lets himself be spooned and also closes his eyes.

He wakes, disoriented and without knowing what time it is, when the neighbor above starts vacuuming and pushing furniture around. Behind him, there is a grunt, and the arm around Tony's waist tightens before it is followed by what can only be described as a possessive, sleep-laden growl.

“Stay.”

Tony's eyes flicker towards a clock above the door, and his brain decides to agree with his big spoon.

+

Things are good and easy after that. The Avengers may have said goodbye to Gotham, but a big part of Tony's heart has not left the city.

Only the fact that they are going to be separated by a 1.5-hours car drive kind of puts a damper on dating if Tony is being honest with himself. To be fair, he has never done a long-distance-relationship because he already finds it arduous to make time for each other without switching cities.

Maybe, though, that was before he was dating someone whose working schedule is as fucked up as his own. Who does not berate him for not wanting company after a truly arduous shift. Who likes to be alone as much as spending time together, and who is fine with pizza on the couch instead of fancy dining out most of the time. Who does not talk a lot but who lets Tony talk -and, most importantly- who listens.

Yeah, so - this? Could actually work for once.

During the first three months, they see each other about a dozen times; the majority of them taking place at Tony's abode because it is cozy and spacious with its loft-style character. Sadly though, that advantage loses its appeal ever since that one time they had a fuck-a-thon that lasted nearly the whole weekend.

When Tony completely forgot to reply to his best buddy's texts, James Rhodes eventually got concerned. Using his spare set of emergency keys, he then walked in on them doing it butt-naked and shameless on the kitchen table. Likely jarred for life, Rhodey stumbled back and mumbled something apologetic as Tony tried to get his brain back into think-and-talk mode while also trying to de-tangle from Bruce's... 'hold'.

Okay, so maybe it was all kinds of awkward, but in Tony's defense, it was not the worst thing Rhodey has caught him doing. Off the top of his head, Tony can name at least three incidents with a much higher second-hand-embarrassment rate. Bruce, however, remains horrified beyond belief for days... -no, weeks- afterward.

“He saw me boning you from five feet away!”

“No need to be shy, babe, your technique, and, oh, your physique both are... magnifique.”

Bruce finds Tony's chef's kiss and French accent decidedly unfunny. Of course he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by Nelly (2002)


	19. (I don't wanna fall) To The Fire

With the Avengers squadron back in New York, still working out how to compensate for the loss of Bucky on their team, Tony freaks out when he gets a call from the GCPD one Wednesday afternoon. It is none other than Commissioner Gordon who tells him that Lieutenant Wayne has gotten injured during the pursuit of an armed robbery. "Fell down a flight of concrete stairs and busted his knee, but he'll be fine."

Tony thanks the Commissioner and pockets his phone. He breathes out and turns around to walk back over to where his colleagues are sitting and watching TV while sharing a pizza. Steve's eyes are on him as he reclaims his seat, but he gives a meek smile and shake of the head and grabs one of the last slices to busy his mouth. Still, Steve Rogers is nothing but persistent, and so he corners Tony in a quiet minute later on.

Once Steve learns about the circumstances behind Tony's subdued mood, he is quick to offer a solution.

"Take tomorrow off. We won't be short-staffed since we'll have a candidate coming in. Sam Wilson, former USAF pararescue airman. He's done some driving in the past and should be able to maneuver Mark 2." Tony snort-laughs as he presses his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose and rubs at the tension there. "Tryna slide me out of the picture, Cap?" It comes out without actual malice but there is a lingering doubt. 

Much to his surprise, Steve puts a hand on his shoulder, prompting Tony to drop his hand and look at him.  "Never. But I need you to be a hundred percent focussed, and your focus may not be... here." Tony thinks he should be angry at Steve assuming he is unable to do his job just because his lover is at the hospital with a non-critical injury. Judging by Steve's expression, however, Tony realizes he is genuinely trying to help. 

"Alright. Captain's orders, I guess." 

Steve nods, emotions back in check, and his commandeering self firmly in place. 

Before they part, however, Tony calls out his name and waits until Steve meets his gaze.

"Thanks, Steve-O."

+

As soon as his shift ends, Tony races his R8 all the way over to the Gotham Grand Hospital. After the grueling rush hour traffic which takes him close to two hours to conquer, he ends up being denied access to Bruce's room because he is not family. Tony's already frayed nerves are close to combusting, but thankfully, Commissioner Gordon is also there and helps him out by convincing the head nurse Tony may go in.

When he finally gets to lay eyes on his incapacitated lover, Bruce is awake and looks like shit. His left leg is hoisted up in a daring medical construct, and reddish abrasions adorn the side of his face. Zapped of his previous bout of adrenaline, Tony drops his leather jacket onto the table by the window and pulls a chair close to the bedside. “I leave you alone for two weeks and you go and fuck yourself up. Bangup job, Bru.”

Bruce's lips twitch at the annoying abbreviation Tony has come to use whenever they are bound to argue. “I'll be fine.” Tony's mouth curls into a mirthless smile. “Fine? You have a moderate concussion and a frazzled collection of what used to be your knee ligaments.” His lover grits his teeth as he unsuccessfully tries to reach for the slung-back covers to pull them over his non-lifted leg. “Could be worse.”

Tony purses his lips. “You mean ending up with a broken neck? True, yeah, but then again, I thought we'd established you're not invincible. I clearly need to stop calling you SuperCop in bed, it promotes unhealthy mechanisms.” During his tirade, Bruce stops fishing for the covers and leans back with a tired sigh. His face is now showing clear signs of pain, and it makes Tony put him of his misery by lending a hand with the sheets.

That close, he caves in and allows his carefully-hidden avalanche of fear and worry to go down. “Fuck, you scared me. When I heard Gordon's voice, the first thing I thought-” He interrupts himself with a wet snort. “Screw dating a first responder. 's not worth it.” Eventually, familiar fingers start running through his hair. “Pot, kettle.” Careful not to disturb the caresses, Tony raises his head to press gentle lips to Bruce's dry ones.

“Here's how it goes, my sweet li'l kettle: I'm going to nurse you back to health, but I'm doing it where I can keep an eye on you.”

Wrong thing to say again. Bruce's abrasion-mottled jaw sets at a rather stubborn angle and he drops his hand.

“No.”

“Yes. Goodbye, Gotham – hello NYC.”

+

Bruce hobbles around Tony's loft on crutches like a house cat who has just been relocated. He cannot do much, and his mood at being expendable and helpless grows into a state of grumpiness as he watches Tony dip his duffel bag and empty its contents on his bed. He already held his tongue and watched Tony shove a very random selection of clothes into said bag at Bruce's apartment before driving them back to New York.

Commissioner Gordon, or 'the traitor' as Bruce has dubbed him, has readily agreed with Tony's plan seeing Lieutenant Wayne is going to be off-duty for at least four to six weeks, depending on the way his partially-torn ACL is going to fare during recovery. Bruce's scowl deepens on its own accord, and at that point, Tony seems to feel the glower bestowed upon him because he looks up.

"Don't look so grouchy, babe."

"You're wrinkling all of my clothes."

Tony looks down at the heap of loose sweatpants, t-shirts, socks, and underwear. And gives a blithe shrug. "I don't mind you being all rumpled." He proceeds to cram the heap into a cubicle of his closet which Bruce quickly determines will never fit all of his clothes, let alone in a sorted fashion. He tries to mentally count to ten and slowly exhales through his nose, gripping the plastic handles of the crutches tight.

"I think I should put the leg up."

Tony stops squinting at the mangled t-shirts in his fist and the far-too-small space of his closet.

"Yeah, of course. Sorry, my bad. Take the couch, we'll order in."

+

Having pasta al forno for dinner seems to do wonders for Bruce's mood. They end up eating on the sofa instead of at the kitchen counter to accommodate his injury and allow him to rest his leg in a horizontal position. When Bruce offers half of his dessert to his lover, Tony declines with a chuckle. "Best not push my luck." Bruce licks the spoon clean and puts the dessert aside. "Meaning what?" He gets a meek smile.

"Pretty sure the reason why tiramisu tastes so good has something to do with the booze they put in it."

With that, Tony gets up to put the plate with the half-eaten tiramisu in the fridge. Bruce is frowning at him when he drops back on the couch. "So, back at the Shawarma restaurant-" He leaves the rest of the sentence up in the air, but Tony understands. And nods. "I call it an episode. It's gotten better over the years, but sometimes, the urge gets too strong to resist, you know?" He watches his lover watching him with solemn intent.

"I don't, but you could help me understand."

Bruce's voice sounds like he is treading unchartered territory with the utmost care, even if his face is not displaying any sort of misplaced pity or half-hearted sympathy. It makes Tony feel less inclined to try and deter him with his usual panache and motormouth-deflection. Belly full of pasta, he thus suppresses a yawn, puts his head against the backrest, and turns his whole body towards Bruce.

“I never told you the tragic story of my childhood, hm? Well, maybe because there's nothing that tragic about it. I mean, yeah, pops was a choleric who'd spun into alcohol-induced rage fests now and then, telling me what a shitty disappointment I was, sometimes with words, sometimes with other means, but...” Tony shakes his head with a dark chuckle.

“... and then, there was mom. Pretty, but also pretty useless mom who never had a chance to stand up against his ways, but then again, that's how you rolled back in those days, no? Patriarchy over everything and fuck the rest, even if your only son can't sit still for dinner because of daddy's latest 'lessons' involving a riding crop.” He eyes his silent boyfriend, whose frown now at least has a horrified quality to it. Tony arches a brow.

“Not to imply my dad was a pedo, alright? He just loved to beat the shit out of me when he was drunk and dissatisfied with me. Or himself. Or life in general.” Tony then leans back into the sofa and rubs his face between his palms. “But I still had parents, so I guess I shouldn't complain.”

This is as much as he dares to voice his knowledge about a topic best left unspoken. It is not meant as a warning to stop prying further but as an act of caring, understanding solidarity. Nothing on Bruce's face moves. Seconds later, Tony near-flinches when he ends up being pulled against a warm, solid chest. “Yes, you should. Because no one deserves to be treated like that. Least of all a child.” A slow, sad smile curls Tony's lips.

“Still turned out halfway functional there, didn't I?”

His words are mumbled against the side of Bruce's neck, where he inhales deep. The one-armed embrace around him tightens.

“Let's get some sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by Bon Jovi (1985)


	20. Shot Down In Flames

Bruce insists on going back to Gotham after a week and a half.

Tony tries hard not to mope, though they part amicably. The distance is likely going to do them good after living together close-quarters. They are still too early in their relationship to be squabbling about Tony preferring to leave his used dishes and worn socks all over the place. Also, if Bruce is a pedantic clean freak who needs to wipe every crumb of toasted bread off the table even before finishing breakfast, well...

... ten days of domesticity are more than enough for a first tryout session, no?

There are some changes at the fire department, too, seeing the Avengers have decided to employ Sam Wilson on probation. Sam and Tony get along well after a brief exchange of snark over Tony's beloved Mark 2, which Sam honestly dares to compare to the Millennium Falcon. Guy has guts; Tony has to admit. It is just his luck that Tony is as much of a Star Wars nerd as Sam, and takes it as a compliment instead of an insult.

Wilson will do fine in their dysfunctional whacko little group.

To still make him pay for calling his beloved truck a bucket of bolts, Tony gentle-bullies Sam to switch shifts with him after the first month. It means getting to have two days off, and he is more than eager to spend them in Gotham City. Carnal desires notwithstanding, Tony dearly misses his grouchy Mr. Clean. Their phone calls always end up having an interrogative feel to them, and that does not really do it for Tony.

No, he wants the sleepy cuddles, the vampire-like grins, and the way his supercop can lift and press him against the wall without any effort while kissing him like there's no tomorrow. He decides not to tell Bruce about his spontaneous visit plan, because, yay, surprise?

Humming under his breath to the sounds of an old Guns N' Roses song on the radio, Tony speeds his R8 over to the familiar apartment in West Village. As it turns out, Bruce is not there, so Tony leaves his Audi at a car park two blocks away and tries his luck at the GCPD. His boyfriend likely got antsy and went to visit his colleagues despite still being on sick leave for another few weeks.

The police department is rather quiet, and shows no signs of Lieutenant Wayne. Detective Stephens who has been typing up some reports behind his desk recognizes Tony and chats him up about his woes with his 1990 Ford Mustang convertible. And then he casually drops a bombshell.

“Yeah, the Ltee's been here, but briefly. Think he went to dinner with a guy from the MFD.”

Tony's eyes narrow briefly.

“MFD?”

Stephens, oblivious to his confusion because he is searching his desk drawers for something, nods along. “Metropolis Fire Department.” Tony plays it cool and tells Stephens to check his Mustang for blown head-gaskets and leaky exhaust manifold gaskets before he waves his goodbyes and trots off. His feet lead him back towards Bruce's apartment, fingers around the slim, two-key-ring in his pocket.

Bruce has given him the spare set after Tony forgot to bring along his laptop and offered to drive back to Gotham to get it. He has not requested them back so far, and so Tony kept them; inwardly giddy at the meaning behind it.

He casts a glance up the apartment block. By now it is 6:30 and there is no light behind the windows on the second floor. Tony debates calling him and pretending to just have arrived to see what he would answer. However, he does not want to be that kind of boyfriend. He trusts Bruce, even though the latter has been annoyed with him and his fussing as of late. But that was to be expected with Bruce being incapacitated, was it not?

Tony is unsure.

Around the corner from Bruce's apartment is a 7-Eleven, and Tony stops jiggling the keys in his pocket and heads inside.

+

It is a little past 9 pm when Bruce unlocks his front door and switches on the light in the corridor. He slips out of his jacket and winces as the motion twists his tender knee into a weird angle. Bruce grimaces; he should have worn the brace tonight but then again, he had not expected to be walking around that much. He freezes instantly when his gut feeling tells him he is not alone; that someone is inside his apartment.

Before he can spring into ambush mode, he recognizes an all-too-familiar baseball hat on his sideboard. That is when a well-known, disembodied voice speaks up from the kitchen area. “Hi, honey, 'm home.” Bruce remains standing in the doorway, the twilight from the corridor illuminating the darkened area across from him. Tony is sitting at the kitchen counter, a bottle of liquor next to him. It is empty.

Even more alarming is the fact that he has dug out Bruce's standard-issue GCPD gun and is toying with it.

Their eyes meet.

“Where've you been?”

Heart hammering against his ribcage, Bruce makes sure to keep his hands visible as he turns on the downlights of the kitchen cabinets.

“Give me the gun. Please. I don't want you to get hurt.”

A drunk simper flits over Tony's face, looking warped and nothing like him.

“Wrong answer.”

Then he aims the gun at Bruce.

“Now what, huh? Wanna try again?”

Sweat starts to prickle in the small of Bruce's back and he freezes on the spot. “Put it down, Tony. This isn't funny.” His voice is still modulated, although there is a slight quiver at the end. Tony raises blood-shot eyes at him. “Bang, bang. My baby shot me down. Isn't that how the song goes?” Throat constricted, Bruce tries for de-escalation and swallows, albeit with difficulty. “You would never harm me. We both know that.”

An ugly, distorted smile is his answer. The gun wavers from left to right but stays on target. On Bruce. “Yeaaah, I know. Maybe you should, tho. Fuck me up I mean. Cuz 'm fucked up, Bru. 'm so damn fucked up. You should know by now.” With that, Tony raises the muzzle, using it to scratch at a spot on his temple. Bruce's heart races. From this angle, he cannot say for sure whether the safety catch is still on or not.

“Tony... sweetheart. Please.”

He forces his breathing under control. “I know that this isn't what you want. I also know that nothing is going to happen if you just put the gun away now and let me help you.” Tony's face shifts into something that screams utter desperation. The Glock clatters onto the granite surface as he buries his face within his arms and a vivid expletive.

Seizing his chance, Bruce surges forward and succeeds in de-arming him. Only his trembling fingers give away how shaken he is as he flicks the safety catch back on and secures the gun in the waistband of his pants. His legs buckle, and Bruce slides into the free chair across from where Tony is slumped over, breathing hard. For a few moments, neither speaks a word. Then Bruce takes a sharp inhale of breath.

“We need help.”

Face still hidden, Tony chokes out a wet sound that barely resembles a laugh.

“I need help you mean.”

Bruce stares at his dark hair, though keeps his hands to himself. He has had training, of course, to interact with mentally unstable persons, but it is a whole different game entirely if you are emotionally compromised.

“I'm here for you. With you.”

When Tony raises his head, his eyes are red-rimmed; either from alcohol or from crying. Bruce's heart aches upon seeing him that way.

“What if I don' wan' that?”

That leaves Bruce speechless for a good three seconds.

“If you need space, I can-”

With sudden venom, Tony brushes the empty bottle down. It smashes into pieces on Bruce's tiled floors. “Don't fuckin' put this on me!” Bruce looks coiled up and ready to intervene, training instincts kicking in. “What's that supposed to mean?” With a snarl, Tony grabs the edge of the counter and surges to his feet. The barstool topples over behind him. “Where the fuck have you been?” Realization dawns on his lover's face.

“I was out for dinner with Clark. Is that what this is about?”

“Why the fuck didn't you tell me?”

Bruce also gets up, misery giving way to irritation. “I wasn't aware I needed to ask for permission to see a friend. A friend whom I haven't seen for weeks and who asked if I was free tonight.” Tony barks out a crude laugh. “Oh yeah, you're such good friends all of a sudden.” When nothing follows, Tony goes in for the kill. “Did you fuck him? Ever?” Bruce's right hand clenches into a fist. “I am not gracing that with an answer.”

“So you did. Or wanted to. Want to.”

Bruce's mouth gets pressed into a very grim, thin line before he starts speaking again. “Even though it's none of your business, Clark and I had a fling years ago before he realized he is more into women. He is about to get engaged and wanted advice. He also asked if I'm seeing someone, and I told him I do. He was happy for me.” A moment of silence falls between them again, only broken by their mutual harsh breathing.

Shame washes over Tony and shuts him up, but Bruce is only getting started. “But now you give me this shit and point a fucking loaded gun at me!” His voice rises, as does his ire. “Do you know what that means? Aggravated assault - pointing a firearm at a police officer is a crime. A fucking crime, Tony, do you understand?!” Tony outstretches his arms, insides of his wrists pointing upward, and holds them together.

“Maybe you should. Arrest me I mean. So you have something to tell Clark on your next dinner date.”

That is when Bruce's face shuts down in the matter of seconds and becomes cold and detached just like that very first time they have met.

“I don't need this. Get out.”

“Oh, you bet.”

Tony fumbles for his car keys but is clumsy enough to drop them. Bruce is quicker than him and snatches them off the floor to pocket them with a glare. “Forget it.” Tony keeps holding on to the counter's edge, balance-impaired, and all but snarls back at him. “Gimme my fuckin keys.”

“Catch a cab for all I care, but you're not driving.”

They lock eyes in a stare-down that ends with Tony clenching his hands into tight fists. For the briefest of moments, Bruce expects him to come at him. His whole body tenses and adopts a stance ready to deal with being attacked, but nothing happens. Instead, Tony's eyes turn hard and cold. He plunges a hand into his pocket again. With a metal clang, Bruce's apartment keys slitter across the granite kitchen top.

"Screw you, alright? Fuckin hypocrite."

Bruce wants to snarl back, wants to point out he is not the one who fucked things up between them over nothing, but he does not hear himself talk over the blood pounding in his ears. The banging of his front door shakes him back into full alertness and he catches a glimpse of himself in the windowpane across the room. The man staring back at him looks like shit.

After cleaning up the shards of the whiskey bottle, Bruce makes sure to inform James Rhodes about the gist of the nasty exchange and Tony's drunken stupor. Despite a few soft curses, Rhodes takes it as stoically as expected. “I'll take care of him.” Bruce draws back from where he has one-handedly massaged his aching knee and the muscle tissue around it. “I need a while to think things through.” Rhodes exhales for him to hear.

“Understandable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by AC/DC (1979)


	21. Burn For You

Tony stumbles through the streets of Gotham, eyes unseeing with unshed tears and a high level of alcohol in his bloodstream. Part of him hopes Bruce comes after him, part of him wishes he does not. As if on cue, his mobile phone buzzes against his thigh within his pocket. Tony leans against the corner of an already closed deli shop and struggles to get it out in the open before it stops ringing. On the other end is Rhodey.

“Tones?! Where are you?”

Tony babbles something that ends in distorted breathing and something akin to a panic attack. Lucky for him, Rhodey stays calm and is smooth and steady in his ear. “Listen up, I’ll stay on the line until you get into a cab, alright? Give the driver my address. Can you do that? Tones?” Tony sob-mumbles into the receiver and regals his best buddy with a jumbled summary of the events leading to his current state.

After three fruitless tries, he finally manages to hail a cab. The driver must be smelling the booze on him and is about to decline taking him along, fearing for his upholstery or worse. Tony throws his credit card at him and ends up falling into a drunken slumber as they set into motion.

He wakes when the door to his right opens and Rhodey’s concerned face peeks down at him. After James secures Tony’s credit card and hands the driver the requested amount in cash, he helps his friend out and into his house. Tony falls asleep in his rumpled clothes on the sofa, oblivious to anything and everything around him.

He wakes around 3 am drenched in sweat after dreaming of shooting down a faceless couple and finding out it has been Bruce’s parents. Bruce screams at him, face covered in crimson splatters, but no sounds come out of his mouth. After that, he drifts in and out of sleep, listening to the audible tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall with its seconds passing by before it gets lighter outside the blinds.

The sound of something being put on the table in front of him wakes Tony again. A glass of water and two Excedrin are present, to help with the war behind his temples. Once he is back in vertical and feeling like death warmed over, Rhodey does not hesitate to give him hell. They have always had that not-pulling-any-punches rapport, no matter who was lecturing whom. 

“You're putting everything on the line, Tones. Work, private life, health. Everything. This needs to stop. For good.”

Tony closes his eyes in shame at the mental pictures of him pointing a gun at the man he loves. He nods, throat constricted, before learning about the plethora of rules his best friend spells out for him.

Rhodey has signed him up for bi-weekly group sessions with the AA for at least the upcoming six months.

Fury will only allow him to come back to work after taking a breathalyzer test each time. Without it, Tony will not be getting behind the wheel, and if he even utters a word of complaint, Rhodey is ordered to bench him. Blinking like an owl, Tony listens to the list while sipping from the glass until it is empty and Rhodey asks him if he can stomach solid foods and some coffee.

Tony can, and he soon finds himself nibbling on some buttered toast while he watches Rhodey getting ready for work. “I’ll drive you home. Your first AA session is tomorrow at 11:30.” Swallowing a piece of bread, Tony frowns. “My car’s still in Gotham-” Rhodey passes him by in the corridor, collecting his utensils for his shift. “Maybe for the best for the time being.”

Tony catches his reflection in the mirror and is quick to avert his eyes. He tries to smooth his bedhead hair back with both palms and pops two strips of chewing gum against the awful taste inside his mouth. Both methods are semi-effective. “At least give me a ride to let me pick it up. I’ll give you the keys but I don’t want them to steal my rims!” Rhodey snorts. “Not today, man, I got a late shift, I'm not gonna chauffeur your hide.”

With a sullen expression, Tony follows him outside to catch a ride in Rhodey’s Pontiac G6. He keeps quiet and his gaze outside the window on his side, watching the scenery passing by until it changes into a familiar neighborhood. The engine dies down and the two friends lock eyes.

“Give him and yourself some time to wind down.”

Tony unbuckles with a listless nod and attempt at a small smile.

“Thanks, platypus. Try not to catch fire tonight.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes at their silly catchphrase from back at the fire academy but waves at him before he is off. Tony drags his feet into his apartment, manages to brush his teeth and shed his clothes, and drops face-first into his bed, letting sleep overtake his exhausted body and mind.

+

After three days of sick leave and his first, more-than-awkward session at Alcoholics Anonymous, Tony sets foot into the firehouse again.

Banner and Blake throw him sympathetic glances Tony abhors, and Steve looks like he wants to scold him for his stupidity. Instead, he tells Tony to check his schedule with pinched lips. Upstairs, Tony gives a lackluster high-five at Clint whose attention stays on Call Of Duty and not on Tony’s pathetic relapse and self-deprecating figure.

There are two slips of paper inside Tony’s filing tray. Apparently, Sam is supposed to handle roundabout fifty percent of Tony’s shifts for the foreseeable future. This is supposed to give him time and space to recuperate fully, Fury tells him when Tony slams the paper onto his desk later on. Volatile, self-obsessed, and lacking the ability to play well with others is Fury’s diagnosis.

With gritted teeth, Tony snatches his paper off the meticulously clean desk of his superior and stalks off.

Not the best point in time to start endangering your job, his subconscious whispers at him.

 _'Shut the fuck up'_ Tony whispers back.

+

Tony's plans to contact Bruce about wanting to pick up his car keys -the perfect excuse to meet and grovel hard- get foiled when Bruce does not deign to pick up his phone, let alone answer any of his texts. After the eighth fruitless attempt, Tony throws the phone aside and leans forward, elbows on knees, burying his face inside his palms. “I really fucked it up this time, didn't I, platypus?”

Rhodey does not disagree, and Tony is glad for the brutal honesty because he deserves nothing less.

This is what you get for being the biggest piece of shit who has ever attempted to be in a relationship.

Eventually, they end up going to Gotham City on an early Tuesday afternoon the week after, seeing Rhodey has been lucky to elicit a text response from Bruce who is willing to hand over the car keys to him. He does not ask if Tony is coming along.

“He doesn’t want to see me.”

“Then just let me get the keys and we’re done.”

That does not sit well with Tony either. He delays the issue and makes Rhodey drive by the car park first to check up on his precious baby. The white R8 gleams back at him, thankfully still in possession of all wheels and rims but sporting a parking ticket because of an overdue parking fee instead. Tony is merely glad to see everything is still there and intact.

Once they come to a standstill across the street from Bruce’s apartment, Tony’s nervousness comes back with vigor. He still bats off Rhodey’s fussing hand and slips out of the passenger seat to press the doorbell next to the sign reading ‘B. Wayne’. His fingers tap a nervous rhythm as the buzzer goes off and he pushes inside.

On the second to last stairstep, Tony then freezes as the door to Bruce’s apartment opens and none other than Clark the firefighter from Metropolis leans in the doorway. He is dressed in casual jeans and a henley shirt, and moreover sock-clad instead of wearing shoes. Tony forces his legs to cooperate until they are face to face. Clark’s face displays no loathing, no sneering or any hostile expression; only a neutral smile.

“Bruce had to go, something at the GCPD came up. He asked me to give you this.”

Inside his huge palm rests the carbon-fiber keyfob to Tony’s R8.

With a subdued nod, Tony reaches out to take the proffered item. He remembers to mumble his thanks before turning around, and if he feels Clark’s eyes on him, he does not give him the chance for any conversation. Numb, Tony trots back to where Rhodey is waiting for him at the curb. He gets in the car and presents the keys when Rhodey arches a brow. “And?” He sounds curious. Tony closes his eyes and leans back.

“Just go. Please.”

His best friend casts him a worried look but is quick to comply. As they head down fairly empty freeways, Tony keeps on turning the keyfob inside his palm over and over. He does not believe the ruse of ‘something came up’ for a second. The only logical consequence is that Bruce is done with him for good and does not have the heart to break it to Tony directly, so he asked his (boy?)friend to take care of things once and for all.

Truth is: Bruce is better off without Tony's collection of issues galore in any case. Tony knows that. And even if every cell in his body protests against letting him go, Tony also knows it is for the best if he tries to get acquainted with that notion. Besides, he could never stand a chance against Mister Metropolis Centerfold, so why bother.

At least Clark will never point a gun at Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by John Farnham (1990)


	22. Love Under Fire

“You have the right to remain silent.”

The perpetrator yelps as Bruce non-too-gently slams the handcuffs around his wrists and clicks them shut. After molesting at least a dozen females around Saint Mary’s Park in Midtown, Lieutenant Wayne has caught the guy in his mid-fifties trying to masturbate in front of a group of young children. It does not help with his current mood but it is somewhat of an outlet.

Commissioner Gordon is in his office when he witnesses his Lieutenant manhandling the sex offender into one of the holding cells. The man has recovered enough from being arrested and starts running his mouth about the "Asshole officer" and wanting to speak to his lawyer about pressing charges. Separated by metal bars, Bruce plants himself in front of the cell and glowers at the guy.

"Shut up before I'll shut you up."

Montoya takes over before things escalate after all. Barely retained anger radiates off of Wayne even from afar, and so his superior motions for him to come to see him after his current meeting with Detective Stephens. When the door closes behind Wayne, and the man stands at attention in front of his desk, Jim also gets to his feet. “Care to tell me what’s wrong, Lieutenant?” Bruce keeps his gaze on the wall next to Jim’s head.

“Nothing, Sir.”

Jim Gordon takes off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose before putting them back on. He glances at his watch, decides it is time for a break, and requests his Lieutenant to join him for a quick lunch. They head out on foot, choosing an Asian diner a few blocks from their precinct because Jim knows it is one of Bruce’s favorites. After placing their orders, they slip onto two barstools facing each other.

Lieutenant Wayne keeps on scanning the traffic outside until they are served two steaming bowls. His superior eventually sighs with gusto.

“Bruce. Come on.”

At the almost paternal tone, said man furrows his brows and busies himself unwrapping his pair of chopsticks.  
  
“Don’t, Jim.”

Being comfortable on a first-name basis with his mentor has taken Bruce a long time, but both of them stick to using it solely off-work and most certainly never around other colleagues. Neither man wants to feed into talk about favoritism at the department, because that would belittle Bruce’s abilities and undermine Gordon’s reputation.

Gordon also rips his wooden chopsticks apart but puts them aside to secure the tip of his tie within two buttonholes of his shirt. “I can see you’re hurting and I want to know if I need to go to New York and shoot a certain pair of kneecaps.” The deadpan description manages to prompt the slightest uptick of Bruce’s lips. “Never pegged you as a hitman.” Gordon reaches for the soy sauce on the side.

“First time for everything, sonny.”

Seeing Bruce’s mock-contemptuous expression, he gives his dish a bit of flavor before picking up the sticks.

“If you want to talk, you know I’ll listen.”

Bruce says nothing and starts eating instead. His nimble fingers effortlessly flick a portion of beef and broth-dripping noodles into his mouth without making a mess of his uniform. Jim knows it has something to do with all the years he has spent in Asia, but it still irks that he himself is likely going to be a speckled mess after lunch. After two futile or semi-successful tries, he aborts his mission to fetch a set of fork and spoon.

He dares his smirking Lieutenant to utter a single word with a raised eyebrow and continues eating. His cohort mimics him and so they spend the upcoming ten minutes more or less in silence. Eventually, Bruce’s features turn pensive and he lowers his chopsticks. “How do you deal with addictions if it’s someone close to you?” Jim stops slurping his noodles and wipes excess sauce off his mustache.

“What kind of addictions are we talking about?”

His tone is cautious. Bruce drags the sticks through his bowl. “Alcohol.” Gordon hums noncommittally. “The way I see it, the only way is getting professional help. And that only works if the person is willing to change.” Bruce nods along glumly, and it becomes clear that he must have already figured out as much. Gordon hums again. “Sometimes, an ultimatum may be just the best option in the long run.”

Light-brown eyes travel up to meet his. “Ultimatum?” Jim gestures with his fork. “Draw the line, even if it seems cruel at first. Anything is better than becoming an enabler.” He goes back to his dish, pulling a face at discovering a speck of sauce on his beige-colored pants. His protege also continues eating, and they do not talk about the issue anymore on their way back. However, Bruce pays for two coffees to go and a donut for Jim.

+

That evening, long after the department has thinned out in favor of the nightshift crew, Bruce finishes the report on the sex offender and leans back to ease the hunch in his back. He finishes the bottle of water next to him in three long gulps and gets up to fetch a new one from the kitchen. The area is uninhabited, and with a fresh bottle of water from the fridge, he leans against a counter and brings his mobile to life.

For a while, he merely scrolls through the texts from Tony. There have been a call and a text nearly every day for the first week after their fallout, and Bruce has left all of them unanswered for a lack of knowing how and what to respond.

  
‘ _Can we talk?’  
_  
  
‘ _I’m a piece of shit. I know. Please pick up’_

  
‘ _I’ll try again later’  
_  
  
‘ _OK, you don’t want to talk to me. That’s fair. But you still got my car keys.’  
  
_

‘ _Can you at least speak to Rhodey?’  
  
_

From then on, there is a distinct lack of texts, and Bruce knows it was after Clark handed over the car keys.

Bruce had figured Tony would come to pick them up himself and had seen to take appropriate measures. Clark had been vague about how the exchange-meeting with Tony went when Bruce called him from the GCPD later that day. Apparently, it was all very anti-climatic and brief. And not even worth being subjected to Jim’s astute, inquiring gaze at Bruce showing up at work hours before his shift and pretending to be busy. 

Ever since then, Bruce keeps on wondering if his buffering tactic has been the right thing to do, but he does not trust himself around Tony yet. Things are still too raw. He scrolls further down to the first text after three days of incommunicado.

  
‘ _I know I fucked up. Can’t make it undone. Can’t stop thinking of you either’_

  
His thumb hovers over the text box for the longest time, but when there is distinctive chatter coming his way in form of two other officers likely looking for coffee, Bruce closes the app and plunges the screen into darkness. He nods at the colleagues from the 4th  floor before taking his water and heading back to his desk. His inbox blinks two new messages and he slides into his chair, scooting close and getting back to work.

45 minutes later, an armed robbery at the stock exchange takes place, followed by a tiresome game of hide and seek with a gang of masked lunatics. Lieutenant Wayne and two detectives manage to catch five out of nine robbers, but with the kingpin of the gang still being on the loose, Bruce does not get another chance at reevaluating his private woes as his upcoming days and nights end up with him working overtime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by the band Asia (1982)


	23. Ring The Alarm

Some of Tony’s high spirits return when the Avengers take on a new trainee by the name of Peter Parker. Peter is from Queens, and his youthful excitement is contagious. They develop an easy camaraderie after Peter gets assigned to Tony for the first weeks of his training before he will move into Nat and Clint’s custody.

Tony takes the 18-year-old under his wing and is delighted to find Peter shares his fondness of blockbuster movies, fast cars, and greasy fast food. He is lucky enough to have the advantage of youth on his side, seeing his metabolism is giving him less trouble than Tony’s burning all those extra calories in the gym. To make up for his shortcomings, Tony shows off his Wing-Chun, proud to have upped his training during rehab.

It does not take long for anyone to see that Peter adores Tony.

Tony would be lying when he said it would not soothe his still-aching soul, even though his feelings for Peter run on a strictly paternal level. But the kid takes his thoughts away from Bruce, and his ongoing, dragging recovery sessions with his AA group. A tough couple of weeks with nightly withdrawal sweating and cravings of the worst kind are behind him, but Tony has not had a relapse so far and he is proud of it.

He and Peter end up hanging out outside of their shifts seeing Peter is just as much a fan of mechanical engineering as Tony is. The kid does not have to be asked twice to come along when Tony is invited to a two-day convention in Princeton. The event is for first responders all over the East coast. It will also be Peter’s first real ‘business trip’ and Tony displays good advice.

“Bring your workout gear. After eight hours of sitting, we’ll be yearning to move.”

Peter’s duffel looks packed to the brim as he stuffs it into the fairly small trunk of Tony’s R8 before he slides into the passenger seat and buckles up. “My aunt’s always wanted me to enroll in Princeton. Now I at least can be there once.” Tony turns the Audi’s steering wheel with expertise and a casual grip before he accelerates. The whine of the engine never fails to make Peter grin, and frankly, Tony feels the same.

“Yeah, kiddo, but now you’re on your way to becoming a firefighter so you’ll get to save people’s lives instead of becoming a desk jockey.”

Peter leans back and graces Tony with a beaming smile.

“Yeah.”

+

Their hotel with its adjourning conference center is spacious and fancy. Tony and Peter do not bother to unpack in their two-bed bedroom and instead spend the free time checking out the amenities of their stay. The conference starts tomorrow morning and they have nearly the whole afternoon and evening to themselves. They decide to go check out their surroundings and end up discovering a fitness trail behind the hotel.

When they return two hours later and have stretched out their legs in front of the hotel, Peter pulls out his phone and instigates a selfie. “Post-workout pic.” With that, he twists his black baseball hat around to remove any shadows from his face. That way, he reminds Tony of those 90s hip-hop artists Peter does not remember; not having been born yet. Chuckling along, Tony steps up close to fit into the camera next to him.

The first five pics end up being deleted because Peter is not satisfied with the results. “Ten seconds until I’m calling a day, kiddo.” An impatient Tony spots a gaggle of freshly-approaching guests and feels stupid posing in front of the hotel’s entrance, but Peter is just raising his arm in a selfie-worth angle and so they go again. While Peter goes for a tough-guy face, Tony raises his arms to flex in the background.

Not that it has anything to do with his run, but still.

Tony's heart starts to hammer fast in his chest as he spots Bruce Wayne and Commissioner Gordon exiting one of the cabs and retrieving their belongings from the trunk. Inwardly, he berates himself – the convention was meant for all first responders and that includes law enforcement. And Gotham is not that far from Princeton either, so it was a no-brainer to run into anyone from the GCPD.

Peter does not notice Tony’s major internal freakout, busy scrolling through his latest haul.

Just then, Bruce’s eyes meet his, and Tony stops flexing and lowers his arms in slow motion. That is when Peter seems to have found something worth posting because he nudges Tony’s side and requests his opinion. Tony averts his ex-lover’s gaze and gives Peter’s photo a halfhearted nod of approval. "Hey, can you go fetch us two bottles of water from the vending machine?" Tony points towards the hotel's lobby.

With a thumbs-up, Peter jogs off and disappears inside seconds before Gordon passes Tony by with a bit of a pained smile. Tony mimics it, focus shifting towards the reason for his still-rabbiting heartbeat. It becomes apparent that Bruce lingers behind, and since Gordon is already out of hearing range, Tony collects all of his courage and gives a hesitant smile.

“Hi.”

A little over eight weeks have passed since their breakup and Bruce looks just like Tony remembers him to.  
  
Good.

Finger-lickin' good.

“Hi.”

Tony feels beads of sweat running down his chest and back, and it makes him self-conscious. Trust fate to thrust his ex-lover back in his face when he is a sweaty, disgusting mess. “So. How’s… how’re things?” It comes out just as wooden as it feels. Bruce only nods which, Tony figures, is his way of saying he is doing well. “... You?” This makes Tony’s heart un-shrivel a bit. Bruce sounds just as awkward as he has.

Before he gets to answer, footsteps approach them. Bruce’s analytical cop gaze scans Peter in less than a second and without him noticing; too busy beaming at Tony who takes the proffered bottle of water with a look of fondness. “Thanks, Pete.” Peter’s astute eyes take in Bruce’s appearance and do a scan on their own. “Are we still going to the spa?” A certain possessiveness creeps into his voice as he puts his arms akimbo.

Bruce gives a slow blink of his eyes as they come to rest back on Tony. The latter gives his younger protege a crooked smile. “Yeah. Yeah, sure we are, kiddo.” He fights an urge to burp at the surplus of carbonated water and twists the cap shut. “Why don’t you go ahead and see where they’re hiding the bathrobes?” Peter looks like he is about to protest at being ordered around, but then again, he is the Avengers’ trainee.

“Sure. See you upstairs.”

With a final cocky once-over at the stranger, Peter jogs off once more.

Bruce’s mouth twists into a contemptuous curl as soon as he is out of sight. “I don't want to keep the Commissioner waiting. Enjoy the spa.” The satisfaction Tony thought he might feel at being able to fluster Bruce in a payback-of-sorts for the Clark incident does not feel as gratifying as he imagined. “Sure will.” As he watches his broad-shouldered ex-lover disappear inside the hotel lobby, Tony near kicks himself.

That could have gone a whole lot better. Fuck karma and its twisted sense of humor.  
  
+

Before Gordon gets to voice a proverb about karma and fate, Bruce locks himself in the bathroom. Once he comes out, he has changed into a simple black t-shirt and matching shorts. “I’ll get a quick workout in.” He grabs one of the complimentary water bottles and a towel from the rack and is out of the room in seconds. Wiping down his face, Gordon swallows the long, suffering sigh that wants to escape his mouth.

Instead, he goes to open the patio door and takes a seat in the wingchair in the corner, fishing for his mobile.

“Nick? It’s Jim.”

He is greeted with silence and does that stupid throat-clearing quirk he always uses when he is out of his element.

“I just ran into your engineer here at Princeton.”

“You didn’t call to tell me how small a world it is, did you.”

Jim’s mustache twitches. “Matter of fact no. I wondered who is accompanying him. New face?” Despite his best efforts, Jim knows he does not sound as casual as he would like to. And Nick Fury knows it, too. “Why?” Outside on the patio, Jim watches a pair of warblers chasing each other through a cluster of shrubbery thickets. “Because I am not dealing with a ridiculous game of jealousy over the weekend if it’s entirely avoidable.”

“… now what the fuck are you talking about?”

And that is how Jim ends up letting the man he used to call a close friend two decades ago (before they parted in anger over a situation involving a moral conflict) in on the current situation. Nick swears under his breath for a good ten seconds before he seems to remember he can also swear at the person on the other end of the line.

"... seriously? Stark and that little mopey shit who used to steal food 'round your district?"

"He is a respectable Lieutenant now, Nick."

"He'd better be or I'll tie his balls to the utility pole outside my office."

"Still as cheerful as ever."

"Shut up, Jim."

"I'd rather not. There's something at stake here."

A lengthy pause erupts, and Gordon forces himself to wait it out. Eventually, he gets rewarded for his patience.

"You never knew when to let things be, Jiminy Cricket."

Jim can basically hear the smirk Fury tries to suppress over the line and can not help but grin himself. Even back at the academy, Nick used to tease him about being his walking conscience.

"Not if I can help it. You know me, King Cole."

If they are back on silly old nicknames, Jim Gordon can give as good as he gets. It prompts a brief, dark chuckle. "Trust you to remember that." Gordon smirks into the peaceful scenery outside the patio at that, thinking that if anyone told him the one thing which would get them back on civil speaking terms was an askew love story between two of their subordinates, neither of them would have taken it remotely serious.

Five minutes later, and with enough intel on Peter Parker, Jim Gordon slips out of the room, hoping to be able to put it to good use real quick. Meaning before his Lieutenant goes and does something rash – like punching the young, unsuspecting intern through a wall, for instance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by Beyoncé (2006)
> 
> Tony and Peter's selfie is inspired by this:  
> https://www.wkmradio.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/TomHolland-RobertDowneyJr.jpeg
> 
> Jiminy Cricket is meant as a pun and refers to the talking cricket which serves as the conscience in Disney's Pinocchio film  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jiminy_Cricket 
> 
> King Cole is a nod to Nat King Cole the singer, and the fact that Cole is a nickname for Nicholas (Nick Fury's full first name)  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nat_King_Cole


	24. Relight My Fire

Part of what makes the First Responders Conventions more fun is not just the networking, or the All You Can Eat Buffet which offers a variety of healthy snacks and drinks throughout the two days, but also the possibility to try out and participate in various physical training challenges.

This year, there is an improved obstacle course built up outside the hotel, daring anyone to test out their current levels of physical fitness, strength, balance, endurance, and agility. Of course, Peter wants to try it out. Even though it has started to drizzle after breakfast. Tony inwardly groans (he always hated scaling objects, and the current course has two variations of it) but dutifully signs up for a slot with his trainee.

By the time the event starts, the rain has stopped but the grounds have turned into a slippery mess, featuring wet soil and sand in equal shares. There are thirteen different stations, with some of them having to be tackled twice during a full round. The organizers allow for four people to simultaneously tackle the course, and apparently, a lot of attendees have decided to back out due to the weather, so the line moves fast.

Among the first round of participants is Bruce, and Tony dry-swallows upon seeing him in his current getup. His dark shorts and fitted shirt both display the GCPD logo in the front while the back of the shirt reads WAYNE, B. in bold, white lettering. Instead of conversing with the people around him, Bruce scans the obstacle course and does some warm-up moves for his upper and lower body.

When it is his turn, Bruce taps at the slim band on his wrist -a fitness tracker, Tony assumes- and is on. His pace is enviable, as is the effortless way he runs, ducks, climbs, and works his way through the course in little to no time. Once done, barely out of breath, Bruce taps his wristband again and frowns. Tony wants to roll his eyes at his need for perfection, but then again, Bruce did not get to where he is today by dillydallying. 

"Can I go first?"

Peter is bouncing on the spot, warming up, and bringing Tony out of his reverie. He is quick to nod. "Show the blue canaries how it's done, kid." From their mutual workout sessions, Tony knows Peter is fast and nimble and already very strong for his age. He uncrosses his arms as he watches his trainee get to the starting spot and throws him two thumbs up. From the corner of his eye, Tony sees Bruce is watching as well.

As matters stand, Peter is truly acing the course. He only falters once, being too quick and impatient with the cargo net and losing a couple of seconds getting back into his groove. Still, the physical therapist who is supervising the event goes and congratulates him on his stellar performance, and Tony stupidly feels a surge of fatherly pride. He cannot dwell onto this for long seeing it is now his turn.

He kicks sneakered toes against the ground, trying to get excess mud off the soles. To say that being watched by both Peter and Bruce is making him nervous is the understatement of the year. Tony knows he is not going to end up among the top athletes anyhow, but he does not want to cut a pathetic figure either. Much to his surprise, Bruce has gotten back in line, too, about to run the course a second time.

Tony does not get to see how many positions separate Bruce from him because he gets the signal whistle and starts working his way through the individual stages. The dummy drag at first goes more than easy, as do the crawl, the staircase obstacle, and the agility posts. The monkey bars are what cost him a lot of energy, and by the time he has scaled the cargo net, Tony's arms are trembling and he is sweating bullets.

Still, he keeps trudging on, though his pace has tempered down to a rather winded jog. It is at the damn A-wall obstacle where Tony finally has to surrender. His lackluster try does not even get him remotely up halfway, and with the wall being slippery from the rain and the muddy footprints of his predecessors, he loses his grip and drops to his knees into the sludge, panting and hating the person who invented obstacle courses.

"Come on."

Tony glimpses up. Bruce's muddied face suddenly is right next to him, and it is set with determination. He extends a hand, and Tony reaches out to take it without thinking. The physical touch alone gives him a surge of new-found strength, and he grabs the rope tight with gritted teeth. Adrenaline makes him strong, and Tony pulls and pushes until he can see finally the flat part of the obstacle on the top.

As he slides down the other side he cannot help but think that he has just ruined Bruce's second attempt at a good lap time. However, the fact that Lieutenant Wayne has likely threatened and bullied his way up the line to be right behind him takes Tony's thoughts off of the remaining obstacles. He finishes more or less dead on his feet, only to drop dramatically onto the wet grass next to the course, arms spread wide.

"I'll give it a 6 out of 10 for effort and an 8 for comedy relief."

Tony cracks an eye open. Peter is looming above; his grin, with his teeth standing out amidst his rain-and-mud-caked face, being far too cheeky.

"See how life treats you once you're my age, grasshopper."

He then makes sure to be extra heavy as he allows his apprentice to pull him back to his feet. Much to his credit, Peter does not complain once about Tony's deadweight. As they walk (or in Tony's case drag his feet) back to their room, Tony scans the obstacle course one last time. Bruce is nowhere left in sight. Despite keeping his eyes open, he does not run into him or Commissioner Gordon for the rest of the way.

While Peter, still full of energy, decides to check out some of the podiums' discussions after a brief shower and change of clothes, Tony decides to treat his sore muscles with a prolonged visit to the sauna. He ends up falling asleep up in their room the second his head hits the pillow. He wakes as the door lock whirrs and Peter saunters in with a couple of brochures and marketing goodies from his convention haul.

"D'you wanna go have dinner at the restaurant?"

Tony's heart says yes but his tired body says hell, no. Peter shrugs, fine with that, and leaves again, only to return a couple of minutes later with an armful of packed leftover snacks from the buffet and some stuff from the lobby's vending machine. They share until Tony dozes off again to the occasional snorting laughter from the other bed as Peter starts watching reruns of The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson on TV.

+

They see Gordon and Bruce again the morning of the departure, at the vast dining room of the hotel which serves as a breakfast buffet area. The Gothamites end up picking a free table down the aisle, out of hearing range from Tony and Peter. Sitting with his back to their table, part of Tony is glad not to have direct eye contact the whole time, the other part of him itches to look at Bruce as long as he gets the chance to.

After 10 am, the area slowly but steadily clears out. People are going to be crowding the reception soon for checkout, but Tony and Peter already have their suitcases packed and ready to go in the car. In favor of enjoying breakfast, they are not in a rush and will let the stream of people leave first. Peter, who is still about to find a way to smuggle two mini croissants out of the restaurant in a napkin, leans toward Tony.

“The dude from the obstacle course is looking at you.”

Fighting the instinct to whip his head around, Tony plays it cool and swirls the rest of his OJ around in his glass before finishing it off.

“Really.”

Peter nods. A moment later, his brows slightly furrow and he casts Tony a thoughtful glance. “How about I’ll go get some more snacks for the drive?” Tony’s expression softens. Peter is very perceptive and emphatic for his age, even if Tony has not delved into any personal backstory about Bruce and himself. "My treat this time." He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his wallet and, simultaneously, his car keys.

Peter takes the twenty-dollar bill without batting an eyelid, but once Tony slides the R8’s keys over to him, his eyes widen in impending excitement. Tony clicks his tongue. “Nope, you’re not driving. Not even revving the engine. Pick a station and program the navigation system.” Some of the youthful excitement dies but Peter slips the keys, the money, and his smuggled croissants into the front pouch of his large hoodie.

"… and Peter?”

The youngster turns around mid-stride. Tony points a stern finger at him.

“No chocolate M&Ms. I’ll never get that stuff out of my upholstery.”

Tony pretends not to hear the grumble about killjoys and gives him a cheeky wave. Once he is alone, Tony forces his breathing under control and purposely looks over his shoulder to where Bruce is sitting. Their eyes instantly lock. Seconds later, in a noble try to appear casual, Gordon leaves the table, and Tony summons all of his courage and gets up as well, taking his near-empty coffee cup along to busy his hands.

At Bruce's table, the used dishes and cutlery have already been removed by a waiter, leaving only two glasses and cups behind. Bruce looks up and makes an inviting gesture to which Tony slides into the chair with a nervous smile he hopes comes off as suave. “I’m always gaining five pounds during these conventions.” It is not the most ideal starter, but it makes Bruce tilt his head as if he is studying him closely. Maybe he is.

“Doesn’t look that way.”

Warmth spreads inside Tony’s cheeks, and he is thankful for his olive complexion. “Easy for you to say.” An eyebrow arches, requesting an explanation. Tony gestures along with his cup. “You’re always looking top of the line.” Now it is Bruce’s turn to fight the spreading blush at the v-neck of his shirt. He clears his throat instead. "Are you growing it out?" His eyes trace the scruff on Tony's jawline with sincere interest.

When not being on active duty, Tony loves to skip shaving because he is a) a lazy person and b) likes how a beard makes him feel at least ten times more stylish. "Sadly I can't. Safety regulations." Tony runs two fingers over his soul patch. Bruce's eyes follow the motion before he gives a nod, almost disappointed. "Understandable." It is then that four people from service approach them, after having circled their table for a while.

They both realize they are the last ones in the room by now, and the buffet is about to be cleared and packed away. Quick to rise and leave the dining area, Bruce reflexively steps ahead to hold the door for Tony. Turning around to express his thanks, Tony thinks he spots a flicker of longing on Bruce's face. Out in the adjacent lobby, the commotion is still high, but Gordon is already in the process of handling their checkout.

At that, Tony feels a surge of panic welling up. Time is running out and he does not know how or when to get another chance to speak to Bruce without any distractions or interruptions. He clears his throat to get Bruce's full attention from where he had glimpsed over at Gordon. “Also, I want you to know that I’m... working on it, okay? Group sessions. It doesn’t... undo things, but I want you to know that I… am working on it.”

Feeling like a stuck record, Tony ends his monologue with a sigh. Bruce's lips curve into a soft, careful smile. “That is good. Good to hear.” Tony mimics it as hope turns his heart into a thudding mess. “Maybe we could… I mean, if you’re free sometime… go for lunch? Or coffee. Coffee’s always good.” He realizes he is sounding desperate and babbling, but he does not care. After a short while, Bruce decides on an answer.

“… I am off next Sunday.”

It does not sound fully convinced, but he does not amend his statement. Sweat breaks out in the small of Tony's back. He knows he has to work but is mentally already planning to switch shifts. Any which way. “Works for me. Why, uh, why don’t I call you so we can fix a place and time?” He does not trust himself to make sensible suggestions while his brain is screaming at him. Bruce’s still-present smile turns meek.

“Text is better. Nightshift.”

Wanting to slap his own forehead at his mistake, Tony hurries to nod.

“Yeah, right. Sure, no prob. I’ll text you.”

Grateful for overcoming this emotional hurdle, they nod at each other. Bruce looks like he wants to say something else, but in the back, Gordon is already standing by the exit guarding two suitcases, waiting. He, therefore, settles for a rather noncommittal “Have a save trip home.” Tony stares at the man he realizes he loves and craves with a vengeance, and hopes that his eyes, for once, do not betray him.

“You, too.”

+

Bruce’s words still ring in Tony’s ears even after he has long since entered the freeway; an earplug-wearing Peter dozing next to him. The future suddenly seems a bit brighter, the upcoming AA sessions less of a chore and more of a chance. A chance to get to a point where he can still have the life he has caught a glimpse of before his latest, brutal relapse. Tony grips the steering wheel tighter with fierce determination.

Life is going to be good.

+

Karma, as it turns out, has another thing in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by Dan Hartman (1979) and was covered by Take That in the 90s
> 
> The obstacle course is inspired by this:  
> https://www.movestrongfit.com/whomovesstrong/2019/3/30/movestrong-first-responders-obstacle-course-design
> 
>   
> ... and all credit for what got the idea going goes to my lovely co-queen and muse who requested 'There should be MUD.' 
> 
> \--> I couldn't agree more! Sorry for not having more of it!! At least there were snacks ^^


	25. Emotional Fire

On Sunday morning, shortly after Bruce has woken up and eaten breakfast, his phone blips an incoming text. He checks the sender and is surprised not to see a text from Tony but an unknown number instead. One he opens it, the texts only holds an FYI, signed by James Rhodes. There is a link to a New York Times article. Bruce clicks it without hesitation.

_Last night, four firefighters and the 68-year-old driver of a Dodge Ram were injured in a head-on crash around 9:30 pm. The firefighters were on their way to an emergency call with lights and sirens activated when the Dodge crossed the center line on 12_ _th_ _Street and struck them head-on, doing_ _more than the permitted 50 mph._

_The collision forced the engine to slide across the eastbound lanes and off the road into the parking lot of a nearby gas station. It hit a sign, a light pole, several concrete barriers, and a vacuum/air pump; leaving debris about two football fields long before stopping._

_The driver of the Dodge was treated on-site with minor injuries and taken into custody for questioning following the crash and is now facing charges for operating his vehicle under intoxication. A breathalyzer test administered to the firefighter driving the engine registered at a 0.0._ _The crash remains under investigation by the NYPD._

Bruce does not even bother to close the tab before he is dialing James Rhodes' number. The Lieutenant answers after the third ring, and there is a lot of commotion in the background. Once Rhodes has relocated to somewhere quiet, Bruce gets straight to the point. “How is he? And where?”

After some rustling, Rhodes sighs. “Broke his collarbone again and at least two ribs, some close to puncturing a lung. Thankfully he wore a seatbelt or things would've been a lot worse.” Bruce remains deadly silent and Rhodes continues to speak. “He's at the Presbyterian. His condition is stable.” He sighs again, sounding terribly worn out and exhausted even through the line.

“Look man, I'm not saying you should come, I just wanted to let you know. He'll bounce back, eventually, and there'll be-”

“I'll be there.”

Once Bruce has hung up, he dials again, another number this time.

“Jim? I need someone to cover for me tomorrow and likely the day after tomorrow as well.”

Seeing Bruce never even so much as takes a day off, least of all a prolonged vacation, and barely even a sick day, his superior is immediately on alert. “Approved of course. Is there something else I can do?” Bruce walks through his apartment, phone wedged between ear and shoulder, and digs into the back of his closet for the weekender bag he has not used in over nine weeks. “Not for the moment.”

Silence on the other end. Then Gordon once more shows how well he knows his friend, colleague, and, to a part, even perceived-son.

“How bad is he?”

Bruce pauses briefly before dropping the bag onto the comforter on his bed.

“I’ll keep you posted.”

+

Once Tony returns to a state of consciousness, he feels dwindling and weak.

Nothing hurts, which is a sign of heavy medication, and a sign of something having gone horribly wrong. He tries to rack his mind for the last veritable images but there are only bits and pieces of bright light, a loud crash, and then tumbling darkness. When he tries to move and finds he cannot operate either his arms or legs, the thought of being paralyzed sends him into a frenzy. It makes the machines around him start beeping.

In less than ten seconds, there is a stranger leaning over him. A nurse, Tony realizes through the haze, and she is speaking.

“… needs another 0.8 mg of Dilaudid. Heartrate elevated. Tell Dr. Morris to check before 4:30.”

Speaking to her colleagues then. Tony droops his eyelids shut and tries to calm down. A brief cold and biting sensation runs through a vein in his arm, but before he can marvel at the fact that he did feel that, the drugs pull him under once again.

The next time he is semi-awake starts with an onslaught of pain, and it is so intense that Tony hears himself whimper out loud. He does not even feel embarrassed by it because this hurts more than anything he remembers from various injuries over the past few years. In an instant, a door snicks and there are footsteps. His eyes feel sticky, and the silhouette he squints at seems female and has an unknown voice.

It might be his flinching that makes her stop moving.

“My name is Nurse Jodie, Mister Stark. I will give you another shot of morphine against the pain. Just a small dosage to help you fall asleep again. Squeeze my fingers if that’s okay.”

He wants to say something but there is a foreign object blocking his airways so he gives the requested squeeze and makes another garbled noise in the back of his throat. The morphine is quick to set in and Tony is floating. One of his final, semi-coherent thoughts (before he goes back to dreaming weird things right out of a David Lynch movie) is for Bruce. They were supposed to meet for coffee this weekend.

Now Bruce will think he has forgotten or does not care all the while Tony is rotting away in a hospital somewhere. Rhodey is not around either.

No one is.

He drifts off with a sense of dread.

+

“Bruce Wayne. I want to visit Anthony Stark.”

Bruce puts his ID on the counter of the hospital and tries not to drum his fingers on the plastic surface. One of the three receptionists who work behind it eventually graces him with a glance. “Are you a relative?” Seeing she seems disinterested in his ID, he pockets it again. “I am... a close friend.” She goes skimming through a nearby box, looks at a folder inside, and shakes her head.

“Visiting hours ended 30 minutes ago.”

His jaw muscles tighten but he forces his face to remain neutral.

“Can you see about making an exception?”

Her ponytail swings as she negates once more.

"Not if you're not a relative."

Bruce takes his hands down so that she does not see him balling his fists. He briefly considers pulling the cop-card, but then a voice behind him interrupts this train of thought. “Wayne.” Bruce turns to see Nick Fury stand in the middle of the corridor, arms folded atop his chest. Like Bruce, he is dressed in a civilian all-black ensemble, and his expression is hovering between grumpiness and plain annoyance.

“Jim told me you were coming. Thought you’d be here tomorrow.”

Bruce's eyes narrow. “Rhodes and I didn’t fix a time.” Fury seems exasperated. “Jim Gordon.” Ignoring Bruce's calculating squint, Fury glances over at the person behind the reception counter. "Mister Wayne is already expected. I’m taking him along. We will stay no longer than 20 minutes.” By now, his expression has turned slightly more amendable. The receptionist gives a noncommittal nod and reaches into a drawer.

Seconds later, she pushes a visitors' pass over the counter. Once Bruce has clipped it onto the hem of his jacket, he and Fury walk side by side down bleak corridors with cold lighting. Various smells ranging from disinfectant to food and cleansing agents cling to the air, and Bruce tries to take shallow breaths. Eventually, Fury stops in front of a door labeled 342. Instead of opening it, he fixates Bruce with a glare.

“You'll have the room next to his. One night only, then you're on your own."

Bruce first frowns, then registers the meaning behind the harsh cadence. Fury points a finger into his direction, though he refrains from touching him. "And you two better get your shit together because I’m done having to listen to Jim’s whining over the phone. I got a department to lead.” The expression on Bruce's face remains neutral, though he gives a crisp nod.

“Sir.”

Fury also nods and leads the way in. Tony is in a single bedroom with a lot of machines around his bed. Bruce registers with relief that most of them seem not to be attached to his body in any which way, but he presumes they have been at some point. He swallows upon laying eyes on the battered person inside the bed. Tony’s eyes blink into their direction, and after a couple of seconds, a faint smile spreads over his face.

“...’m I dreamin?”

Fury looks less aggravated than before entering the room.

“You kept on calling for someone called Bruce, so we brought you the one that most likely fit the bill.”

There is humor in his gruff voice. Tony eyes the man in question again.

Bruce keeps a reasonable distance but his posture and his eyes are vigilant. Tony weakly coughs around a sore throat. “Don’ let Banner hear you.” Fury grimaces and goes to refill a cup with a straw inside with water from a decanter before he holds it out for Tony to take a sip. Afterward, Fury's gaze finds Bruce again. "20 minutes, Lieutenant." Bruce flexes his jaw but nods, once.

Once they are alone, Tony tries to come up with a halfway witty conversation starter but fails. Bruce is already moving over to his bedside, gripping the rails with one hand and staring down at Tony’s likely mangled face.

“Coffee’d been better, eh.”

It comes out hoarse, despite the previous sips of water, and it prompts Bruce to lean in and bury his face in Tony’s neck, breathing hard. His whole body is so tense, it basically thrums with energy. This is so atypical for him that Tony tuts softly. When that does not prompt a reaction, Tony raises a weak hand and brushes it along his shoulder. “Hey...’s okay. I'm okay.”

Bruce pulls back slightly to look at him. His face betrays nothing apart from a deep flush on his cheekbones. “You could've died.” Tony hums under his breath because there is no use sugarcoating things. “Didn’, tho.” Bruce’s eyes dart between his, something raw flashing over his features.

Since Tony does not have a mirror to see what he sees, he can only figure it must not be pretty because Bruce dips his head back into the junction of his neck with a mumbled expletive. His voice has a muffled quality but seeing he is so close to Tony’s ear, the words are still understandable.

“Screw dating a first responder. It’s not worth it.”

Tony wants to be mad for turning his words against him, but his doped-up, sluggish brain only hears the word ‘dating’, and it makes him giddy with newfound, if still heavily-medicated, hope. “Have'ta marry me then. I got life insurance. Reap the benefits.” A wet-sounding snort against his skin erupts. “Idiot.” Tony stops the slow petting patterns across Bruce's shoulder blade and sighs. “… biggest in th’ world.”

Bruce exhales against his jugular. “Not true.” Tony struggles against a wave of drowsiness and fights a yawn. “... yours, then.” It is meant to sound sassy but comes out slurred. Bruce swallows a lump in the back of his throat. "I hope so." His voice is barely audible. When there is no answer, Bruce carefully draws back to look at him. Tony's eyes have drifted shut and his pale face has gone slack.

Bruce presses the softest kiss against his temple before he straightens back up, and that is when he notices the man standing in the doorway of the room. James Rhodes is wearing his uniform underneath a bulky parka, and his eyes are hollow from too little sleep and too much stress. Bruce puts a finger against his lips and walks over to him to speak more freely outside the room.

They find an empty row of seats across the corridor and settle down. When Bruce tells him about Fury's offer to stay the night at the hospital, Rhodes seems relieved. "It's crazy at the moment, we're basically out 24/7. I've been trying to find a way to see him, but he's been either out cold or off to some screenings." Something else crosses Bruce's mind, and he voices it without preamble. "Will he be able to work again?"

Rhodes looks down for a moment and Bruce thinks he might try to sugarcoat his answer. "If he's lucky, he'll be sidelined for less than six months. Depending on how his recovery goes." There is well-hidden sorrow lurking behind Rhodes's facade. Bruce then goes and surprises him and himself with a blunt statement as well. "I'll take care of him." Rhodes stares at him in disbelief.

"You sure? He's gonna be a handful for six weeks. At least."

Bruce mentally goes through the necessary adjustments in his working schedule, thinks back to their role reversal when he was staying with Tony during his rehabilitation period, and nods. "As long as he can't manage on his own." A heavy silence settles in between them. Rhodes eventually mobilizes his reserves and gets to his feet. "I gotta get back. Tell him I was here. I'll try to swing by tomorrow before my shift."

Bruce also rises, about to inspect his bed for the night and getting his duffel from the rental car outside. "James?" Rhodes turns around, brow arched in question. "Thanks." The other man looks puzzled. "For what?" The hint of a smile curls Bruce's lips. "For informing me. You had no reason to." Rhodes sizes him up from head to toe. Bruce, who is immune to tactics like these, stands his ground and holds his gaze.

James' gaze turns malleable. "I want the best for Tones, and I reckon you do, too." Bruce does not know if this warrants a reply so he remains silent. Rhodes's mouth curves into a lopsided smile. "He loves you, you know. Not many have been able to face everything that... comes with it." Bruce thinks he knows what 'it' means, though a smidge of doubt remains. He chooses not to elaborate on it.

"Take care."

Rhodes raises his hand in a casual farewell gesture.

"You, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by Cher (1989)


	26. Something’s Burning (and I think it’s love)

“You really didn’t have to.”

It is the eighth time Tony has said this. He would like to blame the heavy medication for his repetitive babbling, but all that he has been given ever since getting out of hospital are ibuprofen. The risk of relapse with his just-recently-conquered alcohol addiction was already high when receiving morphine at the hospital. Broken ribs are a bitch because there is literally nothing to do but wait and let them heal.

“I know.”

Bruce’s reply has been the same for the past eight times as well. Tony casts his eyes out to where the skyline of Gotham looms up in front of them as they drive across one of the many bridges connecting the suburbs with Uptown. He has not been here ever since picking up his car keys after that fateful event almost four months ago, and the memory makes him shift in his seat.

“We’re almost there.”

Observant as ever, Bruce, of course, has noticed his wince and came to a conclusion. Tony puts up a brave smile.

“I’m good, don’ worry bout me. Oh, and you really, _really_ didn’t-”

“I know.”

+

Inside Bruce’s apartment, everything is still as Tony remembers it to be. There is a neat stack of magazines on one end of the couch table, but otherwise, everything looks almost like it belongs to a photoshoot titled 'Minimalist Bachelor Condo Design' from one of those interior magazines Tony has never read. He casts the well-known crossed katana swords on the wall a wistful glance before Bruce's voice echoes over.

“Do you wanna rest in the bedroom or on the couch?”

Tony eases down on the large sofa with a soft grunt just as Bruce returns from said bedroom where he has deposited Tony’s bags. 

“Couch’s fine.”

Despite the painkillers he had been shot up with before leaving the hospital, he starts feeling his broken ribs by now, after sitting in a rental Ford for almost two hours. He does not realize he has closed his eyes when there is a soft clink to his left. Bruce does his best at downplaying the concern on his face as he puts a glass of water close to where Tony can reach it.

“I’d take the couch so that you can have the bed, but I will be home around 7 in the morning and you wouldn’t be able to use the apartment...”

“No!”

It comes out far more panicked than Tony wanted it to. He swallows and makes what he hopes is an offhanded gesture. “No, that’s not necessary, I mean… we can share, can’t we? Bed’s big enough and I promise I’m not up for anything remotely naughty except for popping yet another Ibu.”

He refrains from mentioning his worries about triggering a potential relapse when having to take any sort of medication. Still, the pain from broken ribs is something even Tony cannot smile and will away on its own, so something has to give at least. The doctors told him he would be safe to use them for as long as needed. Bruce watches him reach for the water but remains standing next to the couch.

He frowns, though it is the kind of frown not directed at Tony but the one he wears when thinking things through.

“Okay.”

+

The first ten days are the hardest, with Tony needing help using the restroom, washing up, and getting dressed. On top of that sexy list, he also generally ends up falling asleep every three hours. Bruce, bless his soul, never once complains or lets on everything is getting too much for him. At least not to Tony's face. Eventually, Tony’s embarrassment wears off, as does the worst pain, and he starts feeling better with each day.

They settle into some sort of routine where Tony tries to make himself as little of a burden as he can be. Around 9 am, he steals out of bed, doing his best not to disturb the sleeping man next to him. He keeps quiet throughout the day while Bruce sleeps until 2 or 3 pm, and then they eat a weird mixture of late lunch/early dinner together and talk about Bruce’s shift and the highlights that occurred.

Sometimes, Bruce brings along bagels from the bakery around the corner. Tony has discovered the little shop during a brief, tender walk around the block and established a fondness for their cinnamon-raisin and everything bagels.

Neither of them mentions how Lieutenant Wayne apparently has switched his usual twelve-hour-shifts for eight-hour ones. If it is to be able to keep an eye on Tony while still getting enough sleep, Tony cannot say. What he can say for sure is that he revels in Bruce's company. He loves watching him workout some afternoons; cheering him on to complete those 100 pushups while eating a bowl of cereal on the couch.

Once Bruce has to leave for work around 10 pm, Tony spends the rest of the evening either watching TV or texting with his colleagues whom he misses dearly. Peter always sends him funny fail videos from people at obstacle courses or old Vine compilations which Tony eventually forbids him because laughing too hard still hurts like a mofo.

Rhodey and he sometimes talk on the phone instead of texting, and while Tony is grateful for being kept in the loop, he longs for being back behind the wheel of his beloved Mark 2. Still, he knows he has a long road ahead of him, but hearing his friends and teammates reassure him he will always be an Avenger spurs him on to do his best, even if his 'best' is mere breathing exercises for the upcoming time.

+

Going into the fourth week, Tony starts weaning off his OTC painkillers and promptly experiences another kind of impediment. His broken collarbone and the relieving posture he had kept his arm in for the past few weeks now result in a dull, persistent ache that keeps him up nearly all night. He thinks about going back to watch TV in the living room but moving to get there seems like an insurmountable task.

He resigns himself to wallowing in a state between dozing and startling awake when he moves the wrong way after nodding off, and at some point, the far-away sound of the door being opened and locked shut is what rouses him anew. Tony’s fuzzy brain surmises he must at least have dozed off for half an hour and considers it a small victory. A tired face then peeks around the ajar bedroom door. Tony gives a weary smile.

“G’morning.”

Bruce returns it.

“Did I wake you?”

Tony gives a negating hum and carefully moves until he rests on his right side. There, the ribs do not hurt as much tonight. “Nah. Couldn’t really sleep. Shoulder’s cramping up but I don’t wanna take another Ibu.” His mouth feels dry and he clears his throat. Trust him to forget to bring some water along. Bruce's head disappears, before it and the rest of him return with a glass filled with water.

He still wears his uniform, and while Tony sips half of the cool liquid, he steals unabashed glances at the meticulous way Bruce starts putting away his hat, duty belt, and holster. The latter is suspiciously empty, lacking its gun, and Tony’s face darkens at the reasons for it. He puts the glass aside, squeezes his eyes shut, and wills the memory to abate.

“Can I do something?”

All of a sudden, Bruce’s face is close to his, as he is hunkering down next to Tony’s side of the mattress. From this close, Tony sees the redness in his eyes that comes from working late nights and being exposed to bright, artificial lights. He almost reaches out to trace some of those circles under Bruce’s eyes but stops himself at the last second.

“Nah, you look tired. Come to bed, babe.”

The words are out before Tony can stop them. He would kick himself if moving an inch did not already hurt a megaton. Trust him to make things super awkward after a long period of being able to circumnavigate the what-ifs and maybe-we-coulds that run around his head.

Bruce, of course, has been the perfect gentleman throughout the past month, but Tony thinks no one does what Bruce has done for him if they merely wanted to be friends. At least that is the hope he clings to. Ever since he is feeling a bit better physically, Tony has been trying so hard to resist temptation; fully intent on doing things the right way.

And by the right way, he means his plans to wine and dine Bruce once he is properly healed up and ready to grovel for all the shit he pulled off.

Now, though; now Bruce looks as harrowed as Tony feels, but nods and gets back up. He disappears in the bathroom and returns ten minutes later in boxer shorts and a washed-out t-shirt, smelling of toothpaste and that organic face wash Tony’s olfactory senses always remember all too well. He tries to sniff without raising suspicion as Bruce settles onto his side of the queen-size bed.

Tony slowly rolls onto his back again, lest he graces Bruce with his back. When he dares to look over, Bruce is sitting up, waiting. “Shoulder?” His hand is hovering in mid-air, unsure if a massage is wanted or not. Deciding that he will take what he gets, Tony nods and starts to move. He grits his teeth at the snail-pace he sets until he manages to get into a semi-seated position. “Knock yourself out. Or… maybe not.”

He tries to keep his tone light, but the angle is harsh on his ribcage, and he ends up wincing upon the first contact of Bruce’s fingers. At that, Bruce scoots up against the headboard and moves his legs so that Tony sits bracketed in between them. “Better?” Leaning back against Bruce’s chest helps somewhat, and once Tony stops fidgeting and nods again, gentle fingers softly probe and dig into his tight trapezius muscle.

The moan draws up from deep down his throat as Tony drops his chin onto his chest. The movement stills briefly.

“Okay?”

Tony hums with relish, eyes closed. “Don’ stop.” This time, the double entendre is unintentional, or subconscious. In any way, Tony is quick to backtrack. “Except... you need to sleep, so stop whenever you want.” A sigh masked as an exhale can be heard. “It’s alright.” He keeps on digging his thumbs into the tight knots, but Tony is already torn between enjoying his massage and feeling terribly guilty. For various things.

“I shouldn’t be interfering with your schedule any longer. In general.”

His voice has dropped down to a whisper. Bruce’s fingers twitch once, almost pinching, but resume their motions. “I don’t mind. Having you here.” He is whispering as well. The pain in Tony’s shoulder slowly starts easing up, and the repetitive massaging movements make his eyelids go very heavy. He feels like the human equivalent to putty and it is making him even more susceptible to speaking his mind than usual.

“Gods, I miss you. So friggin much.”

The massage stops but Bruce’s palms stay on his shoulders like two warm, solid anchors. Before Tony is ready to reluctantly slide out of his secure haven, he feels a soft kiss being pressed onto the delicate vertebra of his nape.

“Then stay. For good.”

+

Tony must have been too woozy to get the full meaning of his words that morning, because Bruce goes and pops 'The Question' later that evening, on a leisurely, recuperating evening stroll through downtown Gotham City. High up there, on an empty sightseeing platform overlooking the bay shrouded in mist, he pulls a small, velvet box from his pocket.

Inside is not a traditional ring, because of the safety regulations for firefighters, but one made from silicone. It is black and has a thin red pinstripe in honor of the firefighters' service commitment and sacrifice. Tony blames the excess liquid in his eyes on the harsh autumn wind.

Bruce lets him.

But only after Tony says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title by Kenny Rogers (1967)
> 
> The ring in question:  
> https://qalo.com/collections/thin-line-collection


	27. Arrested By You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a brief little epilog. Oh, well.

They end up being engaged for a year; upon Tony’s explicit wish. He wants to finish his AA group sessions first thing after being done with physical therapy before he goes over to seeing a therapist every month to stay on track. During this transition time, they get back into a sleepover routine that becomes easier with time, kind of a habit even, but still leaves something to be desired.

Seeing neither of them wants to give up their jobs -and after a lot of toing and froing- they end up buying a small cottage at a township located in between Gotham and Manhattan. This means commuting to work takes each of them no longer than 45 minutes, and it is a tradeoff both can live with, seeing they still have the opportunity to sleep at their respective workplaces if need be.

Their new neighborhood is peaceful and placid, with lots of green avenues for Bruce's running pleasure and a garage big enough for Tony to expand his tinkering hobby. It also features many elderly widows with a soft spot for Tony and his way of fixing their household appliances. Bruce gets a lot of adoration, too, only his stern demeanor and outward appearance seem not as approachable as Tony’s outgoing persona.

It is something that Bruce can live with, especially if his fiancé brings yet another homemade cake from Beatrice’s, Ethel’s, or Suzette’s along.

Six months into their engagement, Tony declares he wants a dog. Bruce keeps on arguing they do not have enough time to care for an animal, to which Tony argues that Ethel and Suzette have already offered dogsitting and that Bruce is still scared of commitment. To prove a point –but most of all to prove his fiancé wrong- Bruce drives them to a nearby animal shelter one afternoon. Surely Tony can see this is not feasible at all.

Ten minutes into their visit, Bruce ends up being claimed by a Bombay shorthair named Dash. Dash only has one eye left and wears a perpetual scowl but she is nothing but adamant about Lieutenant Wayne as her new owner. Tony laughs himself silly and goes picking out a short and stocky Mountain Cur/Basset Mix by the name of JR.

"Cats and dogs don't get along."

Bruce's deep growl has Tony only laugh anew.

“Your point being what again?”

After making sure their new additions do, in fact, get along (and rather splendidly at that) they drive home. Tony’s expression remains cheeky throughout the trip, even as they stop to buy pet food and Bruce hauls two heavy packs of cat litter into the trunk. Good thing his fiancé insisted on getting himself a pick-up truck after deeming Tony's R8 convertible impracticable for their daily life.

(Grumpy cop still enjoys riding with the top down, so.)

**+**

The wedding takes place at the Grand Oaks Country Club in Staten Island. It is the best middle-ground between New York and Gotham.

In the front of the venue, a police car and a firetruck are parked up, both polished and decorated with vibrant flower bouquets in red-yellow and white-blue atop their bonnets. Both grooms arrive being chauffeured by their squadron. Tony even let Sam behind the wheel as to not wrinkle his precious dress uniform any more than necessary. Bruce, too, steps out from the backseat of his Interceptor; spiffy in full regalia.

It is not just them, of course. All of the GCPD and many firefighters from New York and Metropolis are present in their best attires. Bucky is there as well; smiling and not letting on his new prosthetic is still difficult to wear. He and Steve look great with matching buttonhole flowers pinned to their lapels and their fingers entwined. Rhodey as Tony’s best man is a given, as is Clark Kent for Bruce.

Tony, after finally meeting Lois Lane at a double date dinner, has been able to put his niggling jealous grudge to rest. He gives a fidgety Kent an honest smile while Clark's fiancée keeps on trying to right his slightly askew Half-Winsor before they all are told to head inside for the ceremony to begin. Commissioner Gordon and Nick Fury sit in the front row; Gordon and his family on Bruce’s side, Nick Fury on Tony’s.

Both senior chiefs pretend to not be wearing stupid fatherly expressions as the officiant turns to the guests with a benign smile.

“When I look at these two, both with so much heart and care for society, the first word coming to my mind is servants. That's what they have chosen to dedicate their lives to, just like everyone who gathered around today to celebrate the path Anthony and Bruce are going to walk together from now on. In marriage, they are going to serve each other, every step of the way.”

Tony starts to sniffle, to which Bruce gives a soft, undetectable squeeze to his hand. The officiant then motions for them to face each other and that is when Tony knows shit is about to get real. He has memorized his vows, of course, but his voice is croaked and flutters all over the place when he starts talking. “When I first met you, I thought you were the biggest tool on the planet.”

Chuckles and soft snorts erupt from everywhere around. Bruce continues to look at him, unfazed. Tony's mouth twitches.

“But then I looked again, looked with my heart, and I had no other choice but to fall in love with you.”

By now, any kind of laughter has died down. Tony sniffs again, eyes darting all over Bruce's serene, clean-shaven face. “You, Bruce Wayne, are everything I never knew I was able to want for myself, and more. You are dedicated, righteous, and you guide me whenever I feel I'm losing my way. I am proud to be called your husband from this day on, to serve, and to protect our love until either my mind or body ceases to exist.”

A few rapid blinks and a visible swallow are the only proof of Wayne's emotional attachment. When it is his turn to read his vows, he does so by pulling out a small, folded paper from the breast pocket of his uniform, which he ends up looking at once. During his speech, voice quiet, his gaze remains steadfast on his lover.

“I never knew love until I met you. And though it wasn't love at first sight, it turned out to be greater than that. It will be everlasting - if you will have me by your side. Anthony, you are the light and the fire that brighten up my life, and I am honored to be allowed to feel warm and secure at your side. Thank you.” Tony's eyes shine with an overabundance of love. He raises Bruce's hand to press his lips to his knuckles.

The following exchange of rings goes smoothly as first Rhodey, then Clark steps forward to hand over the rings, and when the officiant pronounces them husband and husband, it is Bruce who leans in to kiss his spouse first. Tony has no choice but to oblige, even as he ends up being dipped, much to the joy of his squadron and their crazily-flashing cameras.

Mr. and Mr. Stark-Wayne, everyone.

A quick photo session by the hired photographer includes Bruce handcuffing his spouse and Tony demanding to "Leave the kinky stuff for our wedding night". Then every member of their wedding party gets their 'mug shot' taken before there is a huge BBQ outside and the grooms have their first dance to ''I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch)' by the Four Tops. This only because Bruce admits losing a bet to Tony.

On what remains their secret, but there is no time to dwell on this seeing it is time for Bruce’s surprise. The Avengers - namely Sam, Peter, Clint, Bruce Banner, and Donald Blake grab their newly-wedded colleague and end up performing a choreography while Bruce is left to sit and marvel at his husband’s elaborate moves. Their performance has their guests cheering and clapping all through the five-minute duration.

While the sweat is cooling off of Tony‘s brow and his groomsmen have tucked their white shirts back into the waistband of their dress pants, Bruce looks impressed but far too calm for just being exposed to such awesome epicness. Tony suspiciously eyes the Commissioner and his superior, sitting together like being in cahoots. Upon finding his squinty gaze on them, Gordon breaks into a lopsided, half-apologetic smirk.

“I wasn’t told any details, just that there’d be something. And I couldn’t let my Lieutenant walk into a trap, could I?”

A-ha! So Gordon ratted them out. Trust Fury to be a crummy turncoat. He does not even look remotely sorry.

Tony has no time to grump about this, seeing the music goes up in volume and a familiar bassline and chorus start echoing through the hall. As if on cue, Bruce disposes of his jacket and gets to his feet. He bestows a fleeting kiss on his still panting husband’s lips while all around them, officers start to head to the dancefloor. Goes to show that the GCPD guys are not sleeping under a rock either.

In little to no time, all of them are wearing mirroring aviator shades and police hats. By now, someone has seen to turn on the flashing lights on both the cop car and the firetruck outside the panorama-window hall, and their steady red and blue lights create a perfect background for the upcoming performance. Tony risks a glimpse to see Fury and Gordon throwing him almost identical, smug glances.

Okay, there may be worse things than these two being in cahoots, he thinks.

Then his attention switches back to where Bruce now stands in front of his colleagues and starts making warming-up gestures and stretching moves in all of his 6’1 glory, and... oh my, Tony thinks, it is going to be a Call On Me video rendition. Hot damn. He prays the choreography will stay PG-13 because his pants are just too snug to hide any which boner.

By now, the rest of the guests have also realized what is about to happen. The hooting increases when Bruce goes into a wide stance and starts doing shoulder pushes and bicep curls which his colleagues dutifully copy. Surprisingly enough, the blue canaries put up quite a good show and thankfully leave the most compromising pelvic thrusts out before the song switches to Uptown Funk.

When Gordon’s 12-year old son Jimmy then joins the cast and stays right by Bruce’s side up front for the upcoming medley, Tony’s heart threatens to burst at the seams. He sincerely hopes someone catches this whole thing on video because seeing Lieutenant Wayne surrounded by ten other officers doing Beyoncé's iconic Single Ladies‘ pump walk almost entirely in sync needs to be preserved for generations to come.

In the end, they receive just as rave reviews as Tony and his crew, and the dancefloor gets opened for everyone.

Especially the ladies now make use of it after being painfully unrepresented in all previous activities. When the DJ starts with some classic tracks from an oldies playlist, Barbara Gordon first drags her husband, then Nick Fury onto the floor. This causes a pretty commotion around the Avengers; one which their superior is quick to shut down with a rotten glare. Tony, dauntless as ever, keeps on staring of course.

Turns out Fury is a fantastic dancer. Who knew. Tony files this vital information away before scanning the crowd further. There are Clark and his Lois, attempting some sort of ballroom dance routine. Emphasis on attempt. Apparently, for all of his otherworldy marvelousness, Clark Kent seems to have two left feet. Tony is even more mollified and throws them an encouraging thumbs-up.

Steve and Bucky are swaying softly in the corner, cheek to cheek, and oblivious to the world around them. Peter and Renee Montoya are having a dance-off that looks like a mixture of twerking and doing the twist. Tony then smiles when two strong hands find their way around his waist from behind. Moving his hips to the rhythm, Tony dips his head back and cranes it to be able to look up at his husband's face.

"You know I demand the naughty part of that choreography later on. In private."

Bruce's mouth curls into an impish smirk.

"Gotta work for it."

He smothers any smartass reply Tony might have with a languishing kiss.

'Yeah,' Tony thinks, 'I will. For the rest of my life.'

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~CREDITS~
> 
> Title is a song by Dusty Springfield (1997)
> 
> stand-in for 'Dash'  
> https://americanstudiesmediacultureprogram.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/one-eye-black-cat1.jpg?w=768&h=512
> 
> stand-in for 'JR'  
> https://s3.amazonaws.com/filestore.rescuegroups.org/8130/pictures/animals/15981/15981667/74038690_500x470.jpg
> 
> Wedding venue:  
> https://www.grandoaksnyc.com/your-special-day/
> 
> Tony's groomsmen dance choreography inspo:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDIh5k5ne1A
> 
> Bruce's groomsmen dance inspo (without the Call On Me part, I'm not linking *that* video ;)):  
> https://youtu.be/l-9-Xw2HT1w?t=52
> 
> Oldie Playlist example:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SaHPgTdF1g&list=PLbnusB-ofiRuLUb2i6YnqDR0m-yjof1rS
> 
> Thank you, every single one of you who read, commented, kudo'd, and generally loves IronBat AUs as much as I do! You are all amazing and I hope you stay safe & healthy wherever you are <3


End file.
